Kidnapped
by Babsy1221
Summary: First Lizzy had learned of Mr. Darcy's hand in breaking Jane's heart, and then he had offered the most insulting marriage proposal in history. Could a day get worse? Only if she were to be threatened at sword-point, tied up, and whisked away by a rogue, with only the world's most arrogant man to watch over her. Luckily, that wasn't very likely to happen...
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I cannot truly explain where this one originated. I suppose it was just too much of a pleasure to plan and write. All I can really say is this: in the end, I promise, it all hinges around a single What If. I am planning weekly (or more frequent) updates, since the entire first draft is completed._

 _Disclaimer: I am not Jane Austen, nor am I entirely certain Jane would approve of this._

 _Kidnapped_

 _Chapter One_

"…And I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry!"

Lizzy Bennet had begun her speech calmly, but even her dear sister Jane could not have called her final tone anything other than a shout. Lizzy had always considered herself a clear-headed, composed person, especially in moments of confrontation, but as she stood in Charlotte Collins's parlor watching the normally staid, haughty, and imperturbable Mr. Darcy's handsome face shift between enraged shades of purple, red, and white, she wondered distractedly whether her composure in the face of true provocation had ever been tested before.

"You have said quite enough, madam," Mr. Darcy said through gritted teeth after a moment's obvious struggle to master his emotions. "I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having…"

His voice trailed off, and he cocked his head to the side, his eyes straying toward the closed parlor door. "Did you hear something?"

Lizzy raised her eyebrows. "What sort of something?" Was this a strange ploy to distract her from their conversation? What could he possibly hope to gain from such a maneuver? "I heard nothing out of the ordinary."

"There was… a cracking… like splintering wood…" He paused and listened again. "You heard nothing?"

Lizzy shook her head. Honestly, she may have missed any sounds outside of the parlor, given the absolute focus of her attention on their conversation and the rushing of blood that still seemed to be blocking her hearing.

"Hmmm." He shook his head slightly and returned his gaze to her. He appeared calmer, and that short, strange moment seemed to have somewhat pacified her as well. "Miss Bennet, I will leave you now. I can only imagine that you have been desiring my absence most passionately for some minutes." A pained look flashed across his face, dissipating her ire further. "But, in the interests of justice, I beg leave to present you with an explanation of sorts regarding one or two of the accusations you have leveled against me, perhaps tomorrow before my cousin and I quit Rosings."

"I cannot imagine that another meeting between us would produce anything beyond discomfort, sir."

He closed his eyes tightly. "Of course." He drew in a few deep breaths, and when he looked at her again, he had lost all traces of emotion. "You are correct that further conversation between us seems problematic, but I believe that both you and I deserve to have truth between us. Therefore, may I write you an explanation? I am a better writer than speaker."

Lizzy opened her mouth to refuse. She did not need any explanations from him, nor did she wish to offer him time during which he might concoct justifications for his actions. Then she paused, scolding herself. Of all the things he was, Mr. Darcy had never been disingenuous toward her. She did not truly believe he would lie now that he knew there was no hope of winning her favor.

And besides, she was nothing if not curious to understand his version of events. It would be fascinating to see how his pride and arrogance had twisted the situation to make his actions seem reasonable.

"Very well. I will read your… communication." She could not say _letter_ because that felt too intimate.

His expression did not change, but she thought she sensed relief in his posture. "Thank you. I will deliver it to you in the morning. You will walk out?"

"Yes. In the hawthorn grove."

He nodded. "Good evening then, Miss Bennet. Forgive me for taking up so much of your time. Please accept my best wishes for your health and…"

Both Lizzy and Mr. Darcy started at a strange, high-pitched sound that had struck at them from the corridor. "What was that?"

Mr. Darcy frowned toward the door. "An animal?"

"A cry, most certainly."

The gentleman hesitated for a moment, and Lizzy understood his reluctance. Strictly speaking, his presence here at Mr. Collins' house, visiting her alone in the closed parlor, was not entirely proprietous, especially given that he would not be leaving the room as an engaged man, as he had hoped to be. However, as the only gentleman present, it was his duty to resolve any trouble.

Finally, with a bit of disgruntlement, he strode forward toward the door and swung it open. "You there?" he demanded. "What is…?

He did not finish his words, instead suddenly stiffening and standing very still.

"What is it, sir?" Lizzy asked, moving toward him.

He turned his head slightly at the sound of her movement and commanded, "Stop! Do not come any nearer! Stay back!"

"Back up slowly," said a baritone voice from the corridor, one Lizzy did not recognize. His tone was casual, even friendly, but as Mr. Darcy backed into the room, his arms now raised at his sides with his hands open at chest height, Lizzy knew the owner of the voice was the opposite of cordial. The rapier resting against Mr. Darcy's waistcoat made that particularly apparent.

She drew in a sharp breath and clasped her hands together against her own chest, as if she could somehow protect both herself and Mr. Darcy from the weapon.

"Who are you?" Mr. Darcy demanded. His complexion was pale, Lizzy noticed from the side, but his voice came out steady. "What do you want?"

The man finally came into view around the open door, and Lizzy's heart moved into her throat. There was nothing particularly sinister about him. He was tall and broad, and he wore a travelling cloak over the fine boots and breeches of a gentleman, but he had no jacket under the cloak, only a patterned waistcoat, and he wore no hat. His features were distinguished, maybe even handsome if Lizzy were not so afraid, and his light-colored hair was long enough to be pulled back into a tie. His expression was cheerful and easy, and he cut a swift bow toward her.

No, he was not frightening at all. Except that he was pointing a sword at Mr. Darcy.

"I am afraid that my name is not particularly important," the man answered. Even his speech was that of a gentleman. "But your names, on the other hand, are far more important than you can imagine, given that you are clearly _not_ Mr. and Mrs. Collins. Tell me please, who are you?"

Neither Lizzy nor Mr. Darcy moved to answer.

The man sighed. He looked back and forth between them. Then he smiled at Lizzy, his friendliness so at odds with his weapon that it made her stomach curl. "Wait. I remember now. Mrs. Collins has guests, I was told, her sister and a friend. Which are you? Miss Lucas or the other one?"

His eyes swung back to Mr. Darcy. "But then who would that make you? Another friend? A brother? Or…" he added with a twinkle in his eye and another glance between them, "…a lover? To be closeted alone with such a lovely young lady as this, I would imagine that as the most likely scenario."

Another man entered the room, this one burly and not quite as impeccably dressed as the first but still neither scruffy nor disreputable in appearance. His countenance and person were forgettable, nothing out of the ordinary, except for the darkness of his long hair and the extreme squareness of his jawline. "Geoff, the servants are secured, and the rest of the house is empty."

"The _entire_ house was supposed to be empty," the first man replied sharply, betraying displeasure for the first time. "Bring me Molly."

The other man disappeared, and the first man turned back to them, all ease and friendliness again. "Now, I really must insist on an introduction. Otherwise…" Before Lizzy could blink, the man had darted the few feet between them and taken up a position behind Lizzy with one arm around her waist and the other holding the rapier at her throat. "…I shall have to employ more powerful methods of motivation."

Belatedly, Lizzy swallowed a scream. How had he moved so fast? Or was it just that, in her continuing shock, her mind was moving too slowly?

"Please," Mr. Darcy said urgently, now directly in front of her some feet away, "do not harm her. My name is Darcy, and hers is Miss Bennet."

"Bennet," the man mused, tightening his grip on her. "Yes, that was the name of Mrs. Collins' friend, was it not? And Mr. Darcy. Now that is a name I have heard all too often of late. You are exactly as you have been described." He laughed. "I wonder how dear Lady Catherine would feel if she knew that you are here wooing the penniless friend of her parson's wife."

Mr. Darcy glared daggers at the man but stayed still, keeping his hands out in front of himself. The man evaluated him earnestly and was silent for several seconds before his arms tightened and Lizzy felt herself drawn more securely back against him.

"Not that I can blame you, sir. In fact, given the difference between poor Miss de Bourgh and our _lovely_ Miss Bennet here, I would like to compliment you on your very good taste." The man leaned his head down, placing his face very close to the skin of Lizzy's neck, and inhaled deeply. "She even _smells_ appetizing."

Lizzy was unable to suppress a shiver of revulsion. For the first time, her surprise subsided enough for her to feel real fear. She looked up desperately at Mr. Darcy, who had started forward, heedless of all dangers, with wide eyes and fervent rage. "Unhand her, you fiend!"

"Tut, tut, good sir," the man said, shifting himself and Lizzy a step back and holding his sword toward Mr. Darcy again. Mr. Darcy stopped just before running into the blade, but Lizzy wondered whether such fire as she saw in his eyes might melt a sword, or even burn a man from that distance as effectively as a torch. "I will not harm her, I give you my word, as long as the both of you cooperate."

"What good is the word of a thief?" Mr. Darcy spat.

"I suppose you will come to find out."

The other man returned again, this time accompanied by two more men who were obviously as strong and formidable as himself, and a young girl, one of Charlotte's housemaids.

"Molly! So good to see you again, my dear!"

The girl was shaking badly, but she tried not to show it, standing as tall as she could and wearing a defiant expression. "My Lord."

The man holding Lizzy used a single finger to motion the girl forward. She came reluctantly, stopping as far from him as she could.

"Now, dear girl, tell me why, after you assured my representative this morning that _all_ the residents of the house would be out this evening, I have entered this home to discover it occupied."

He asked his question very kindly, his tone almost paternal and just slightly chiding, which was why Lizzy frowned in confusion at the sudden pallor of the girl and the distinct shake in her voice as she replied, "They were all to go tonight, sir. I'd no idea, sir, that Miss Bennet was to stay behind until only a few minutes before you arrived, nor that the gentleman would come to see her. I'd have tried to warn you, sir, except that Mrs. Locken set me to peeling potatoes and was watching me so close!"

"Of course, of course," he said kindly. "That would not be your fault at all, if it were true. Is that the case, Miss Bennet? Did you decide to remain back from the evening at the final moment?"

A part of Lizzy thought perhaps she should deny the girl's claim and get her in trouble as revenge for the girl's spying on Charlotte and Mr. Collins, especially as the man did not seem particularly inclined to punish her, but finally she nodded, saying quietly, "I did not feel well. It was only before walking out the door that I informed Mr. Collins of my intent to remain. And no one knew of Mr. Darcy's coming, not even myself, until he arrived."

"Then little Molly really did do her very best?" he asked cheerfully. "I am so glad to hear it." He motioned for Molly to step nearer, and she did so now with slightly more confidence, comforted by his gentleness.

He reached out and chucked her chin. "Thank you, dear one. You may tell your Papa that his debt is repaid. Although I would encourage him to avoid becoming indebted to me in the future, if I were you." He lowered his face so it was even with hers, and his smile dropped away as his tone lowered. "I will not be so understanding of a second mistake."

Molly swallowed with difficulty and nodded vigorously, trembling a little with new fear. Lizzy felt a matching shiver in her own limbs and was glad that the man's threatening tone was not directed at her.

Through the entire conversation, his sword did not waver from Mr. Darcy.

"Return her to the others," he said to one of the other men, turning her by her shoulder and handing her off. "We would not want her to lose her place now, would we?" He waited until the shaking girl had been guided from the room before returning his attention to his other captives.

"Now," he said with a smile, "what are we to do with the two of you?"

"We are obviously not who you expected," Mr. Darcy said calmly, his eyes fixed on the man's face. "Leave us here and go your way."

"Unfortunately, that is not possible, not now. And besides, you are a very wealthy man, Mr. Darcy. I am beginning to wonder whether perhaps this little mistake is actually a blessing. I can hold the two of you for ransom, whether paid from your own coffers or those of your relations I care not, and still move forward with my original intentions, although with a few… adjustments."

"Geoff," the dark-haired man said warningly, "adding hostages to our journey will slow us considerably."

"Nonsense, Reg," the lead man answered with a laugh. "'Twill be worthwhile to accommodate them, I assure you. I have it on good authority that Mr. Darcy here is disgustingly flush, and the unexpected windfall will be spread evenly among the men, a parting gesture of gratitude for all their hard work."

"Very well," Mr. Darcy said, "keep me for ransom. I will pay whatever sum you ask in order to be returned my freedom. But let the lady go. Her family is not in a position to pay you for her, and trying to keep a lady from causing trouble whilst in hiding is nearly impossible."

Lizzy felt, for the first time, a flicker of warmth for the man before her. His attempt to gain her release was fumbling, but she was touched by his determination, even if she feared that he was doomed to fail.

"Is this young lady particularly troublesome?" the man asked, chuckling deeply. "Yes, I think you may be right. Despite the sword at her throat only a moment ago, I can still _feel_ the fight in her. In fact, I am certain her eyes are flaming as I speak. However, no one has ever accused me of being a coward, and I feel certain that her presence amongst my company will be quite entertaining."

"And besides, I suspect that danger to her person will be much more effective in keeping you helpful and willing than you would be if she were released."

"Sir, I believe that you have come to incorrect conclusions regarding the nature of my connection to Miss Bennet," Mr. Darcy said very formally. "I am naturally concerned for her, as any gentleman would be, but we are neither confidantes nor lovers. We are barely acquaintances. Her presence will only complicate your purposes, whatever they may be."

Lizzy closed her eyes, willing the man to believe Mr. Darcy. Given the coldness of his features, the absolute hauteur that had stolen back over him, she found herself nearly believing him. After all, it made much more sense than his claims of deep affection earlier.

"Indeed?" the man cried, sounding deeply shocked. "Have I misinterpreted? What possible other reason could there be for you to visit her alone?"

"He is frequently seeking excuses for escaping his aunt's odious company," Lizzy blurted, hoping she sounded convincingly earnest. "He claimed that she was in particularly fine form today, that he could stand no more, and he came knocking here only a few moments before your arrival, begging for shelter and the use of Mr. Collins' library for a few minutes of peace. Mr. Collins has a particularly fine collection of… religious texts, an interest Mr. Darcy shares. He was just on his way there when you accosted him."

"Really?" The man seemed perfectly credulous. "Which particular text were you seeking tonight, sir?"

"A collection of sermons by George Whitefield."

He had answered without a pause, and Lizzy had to give him credit for it.

"How drab," the man sighed, sounding truly disappointed. "And to think I had concocted an entire love affair for the two of you, conducted right here under Mr. Collins' hallowed roof. Ah, well. Life is rarely as exciting as it might be. But I suppose there are significant benefits to your lack of romantic connection."

"Yes," Mr. Darcy said seriously. "You may release Miss Bennet without further trouble."

"Oh, dear me. No, no, no. In fact, I believe this will all work out much better if I take her with me. It will be a shame to leave you here, sir, but under the circumstances, I believe it will be wisest."

"How so?" Mr. Darcy's voice was so casual, Lizzy felt like spitting at him. Should not the idea of the woman whom he claimed to love being kidnapped be disturbing enough to break through his austere façade?

"Well, if I bring you along without a beloved, I believe you are the sort of gentleman to cause a ruckus and perhaps even take it into his head to plot the capture and subsequent fall of myself and my compatriots. You are, after all, a wealthy, educated man who is used to getting his own way. The purse might be sweet, but there will be too much potential difficulty. However, women are more easily controlled, even troublesome ones, so in taking Miss Bennet instead, we will be able to use her as insurance to gain the cooperation we seek from the ladies of Rosings, which was, of course, the original motive for tonight's visit to Mr. Collins."

"Their cooperation in what, exactly?" Lizzy had not been able to help asking the question. "If you believe Lady Catherine has any great love for me, sir, you have been sadly misinformed."

The man leaned forward, chuckling yet again, and kissed Lizzy's cheek lingeringly. She could not prevent herself from pulling away sharply, eliciting a deeper laugh. "I shall explain all to you, my darling, as soon as we are away. Perhaps over a glass of wine in your chamber." His eyes took on a mischievous expression. "Although you will first wish to rest, I am certain, given that our journey will be long and arduous this night. But do not worry. I will be happy to keep you warm as you sleep."

"I insist that you not be so familiar with me, sir!" Lizzy was blushing fiercely, although she was uncertain whether the main cause was embarrassment, anger, or terror. "Act the gentleman you pretend to be and release me at once!"

"The title of _gentleman_ is an interesting one, is it not? I know Reg thinks so." He sent a cheerful smile to his compatriot, who was watching the proceedings with both alert interest and impatient forbearance. "The world is full of them, and yet I do not think I could name more than a dozen men of my acquaintance who actually embody the full meaning of the word, could you?"

There seemed something familiar to Lizzy about his statement, almost as if she had heard it or something like it before, but she brushed the niggling impression aside.

"I suppose that depends on how it is defined," the man called Reg answered, giving the first man an exasperated look. "We must hurry, Geoff."

"Please," Lizzy repeated, a little of her desperation escaping. "Please let us go. You have no quarrel with us."

"Poor girl," he clucked sorrowfully. "Do not worry. Before long, you will not be reluctant to accept my comfort. We will grow quite used to one another, I assure you."

The two missing men returned before Lizzy could answer him.

"My friends! Has all been accomplished?"

The men both nodded, and the slightly darker-haired one answered, "Yes, sir. The clock in the study was as reported, and we found a jewel-handled letter opener in the desk and some decent jewelry in the mistress's chamber. Along with the silver, I believe we have enough."

"Excellent!" he crowed, kissing Lizzy's cheek roughly again. "That should do the job nicely. Come here," he said, motioning to one of the men. "Tie Mr. Darcy's hands and feet together, and leave him on the settee. Bring me a length to tie Miss Bennet's hands as well." He looked her over with an eyebrow raised. "And another for her feet. She is a mite too spirited to be trusted, I think." He made his final statement with relish.

"Sir," Mr. Darcy said, struggling against the bonds as one of the brutes began expertly wrapping a thin rope around his wrists, "I beg you, do not do this. If you will release us both, you may go your way unhindered. We will speak to no one of what has occurred."

The men ignored him. The lead man accepted rope and began tying Lizzy's wrists together tightly, murmuring soothing words as he finished the knot. He then guided her to a chair and forced her to sit before tying her feet together. Lizzy blushed again as his fingers traveled rather freely over her stockings, but she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

Mr. Darcy's disavowal of affection had been wise, she saw now. If they could keep the man from changing his mind about leaving Mr. Darcy behind, then there was at least some hope of later discovery, and she knew she must do her part to keep Mr. Darcy stable on his course, even if it meant suffering such indignities in silence.

"There." The man stood and moved to the small desk in the corner where there lay a few sheets of paper and an inkwell. "I shall just leave a little note of explanation for our kind hosts, and we shall be on our way."

The room was silent as the man wrote for a few minutes, and in the quiet, Lizzy found she could no longer keep from glancing up at Mr. Darcy. A moment later, she knew she had made a grave mistake. He was sitting as straight as he could in the chair, and his expression was arrogant, almost bored, but his eyes…

He was gazing into her with such a depth of desolation and fear that she felt tears gather at the sight.

 _It will be all right,_ she mouthed to him. _Stay here_.

He did not respond. He only kept staring, and she found she could not look away. Had she ever truly seen this man before? He had a shell of stone, an exterior as hard as granite, but no man as cold and arrogant as she had believed him to be could ever feel so much as she sensed he was feeling in that moment. Who was he?

The man signed the missive with a flourish, arranged it neatly on the side table, and returned to Lizzy's side. "Come along, my darling," he said, reaching beneath her and lifting her effortlessly. "We are off for a little adventure."

He moved toward the door, followed by the rest of his men, and Lizzy felt her heart gallop faster. Her instinct was to struggle, but she remained very still, knowing it would be wiser to seem docile until a moment when her struggle would have some effect. Would she ever see this place again? Not that she had loved it, but she had never felt unsafe here. Where she was going, wherever that was, would she ever feel safe again? Would she ever see her home, her family again? Or would she disappear completely into whatever insanity was before her?

"Wait!"

Lizzy grimaced at the cry, equal parts annoyance and relief, and as the lead man turned, Lizzy caught sight of Mr. Darcy through the open parlor door. All semblance of haughty control had disappeared, and he was struggling at his bonds, pressing toward her with a face as pale as death.

"Mr. Darcy?" the man queried, sounding surprised again.

"Take me with you."

"Whatever for?"

"Because you were right. Miss Bennet is my… I am in love with her." The words rushed from him like a spring waterfall. "I will pay any sum of money, do _anything_ , in order for us both to be freed unharmed."

The man stared at him for only a second or two before breaking into a broad grin. "The truth always comes out at last. Bring him! If you make even a second of trouble…"

"I know. I shall not."

"Very well."

The man swung her unceremoniously over his shoulder for a moment as he strode to the side table, unfolded the document he had written, and scrawled a few more words across the bottom. Then he cradled her against him again and tugged down one of Mr. Collins' greatcoats from the closet near the door.

The last Lizzy saw of Mr. Darcy was one of the broad men untying him from the chair and swinging him over his shoulder, and then they were outside in the half-light just after sunset, hurrying toward a group of horses hidden in the vegetable garden behind the house. Lizzy felt a passing moment of sympathy for the tiny lettuce sprouts being trampled under so many feet and hooves.

The lead man handed her off as he mounted, then reached out and accepted her, cradling her securely between his arms as they held the reins. He wrapped the oversized coat awkwardly around her.

"Ride!"

And then the dark trees were rushing around them. They rode west for some time, past all the roads and villages she recognized, then changed to a southern road well past twilight. Any passing travelers were skirted widely, and the other riders, perhaps five others in all, traveled closely around the horses carrying Lizzy and Mr. Darcy.

They moved swiftly despite the questionable light of the half-moon. She knew not how long they rode, but finally she could keep her eyes open no longer, and leaning her head against the man's chest, she fell into a troubled sleep.

* * *

"Fitzwilliam! I insist that you find Darcy _at once_! I had thought this would be a good opportunity for him to sit with Ann for a time, given that you are both leaving tomorrow. Most irregular of him to ride out in the middle of the afternoon. He did not even take tea!"

Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam bit back the snide remark he wished to make regarding Darcy being a man of eight-and-twenty and perfectly capable of choosing whether or not to spend teatime in company. Instead he bowed respectfully. "Of course, Lady Catherine."

He was, he had to admit, the slightest bit curious himself regarding Darcy's whereabouts. As far as Darcy had indicated shortly before teatime, he had planned to remain in company for the duration of the afternoon, but only a minute or two after the party from the parsonage had arrived, he had made some distracted comment about "business" he had forgotten and excused himself, much to Lady Catherine's displeasure. Even Ann, their delicate, indolent cousin, had roused herself enough to echo her mother's dismay at his abandonment before subsiding into her usual listlessness.

Fitzwilliam could not really blame his cousin for jumping ship. Afternoons were arduous enough for the two gentlemen with Ann, Mrs. Jenkinson, and Lady Catherine, but adding Mr. Collins to the party without the delightful presence of Miss Bennet to counterbalance him was more than any man should have to suffer. There had, of course, also been Mrs. Collins and her sister present, but Miss Lucas counted no more than did Mrs. Jenkinson, both as silent and useless as statuary.

Mrs. Collins, however, was a different case altogether, and in Fitzwilliam's opinion, she was the worst of the lot. Her wide-eyed sister and oaf of a husband were noisome, but observing and conversing with Mrs. Collins was acutely painful. Watching that intelligent, thoughtful, compassionate woman humble herself before Lady Catherine, patiently ignore Mr. Collins, and attempt to gently converse with Ann made Fitzwilliam's chest ache. He much preferred her lively friend Miss Bennet, who inspired no pity or concern, only good humor and ease.

He offered short farewells to the general party, who were rising to take their leave anyway, and moved into the corridor, approaching a footman standing at the ready in the doorway leading to the entry hall. "Giles, where did Mr. Darcy go when he left the drawing room an hour or two ago? The study?"

"No, sir," the young man replied, trying to look as if Fitzwilliam had not just caught him half-napping. Not that Fitzwilliam blamed him. Lady Catherine's policy that a footman must remain in the corridor whenever she had company in case anyone needed direction to another part of the house was perfectly ridiculous. "He returned to his rooms and went outside a few moments later. He was moving very quickly."

"And he has not yet returned?" Fitzwilliam glanced toward a small, decorative clock on a table. The Hunsford party had been at Rosings for nearly two hours, much longer than a usual visit thanks to Lady Catherine having droned on at length regarding the misbehavior of certain of Mr. Collins's parishioners.

"No, sir."

Fitzwilliam's idle curiosity flared into interest as he moved outside and learned that Darcy had not left on his horse and had last been seen moving in the direction of Hunsford parsonage. He had taken to frequent solitary walks since their arrival at Rosings (although he had never been in the habit previously), so it was possible that he was simply taking a tour of the park before their departure, as Fitzwilliam himself had done earlier that day. But it was a bit coincidental that Darcy had desperately needed a walk in that direction on the first afternoon that Miss Bennet had not called on Rosings with her friends.

But what possible purpose could Darcy have had in going to visit Miss Bennet, especially as she was ill? He could not have meant to…

Fitzwilliam's pace slowed and stopped, leaving him standing very still in the center of the ornately paved courtyard. Suddenly, with a single thought, all of his observations of his cousin over the past few months clicked into place.

Darcy had been understandably troubled and quiet at the end of the summer after the Wickham fiasco. Fitzwilliam himself, a normally cheerful and quiescent commander, had dealt with his own personal outrage regarding Wickham by treating the troops and officers of his company with a firmness bordering on tyranny for a few weeks, but Darcy had retreated into himself, especially after Georgiana had asked for some time on her own to sort through her feelings and come to terms with the situation.

After he had returned from Hertfordshire, however, Darcy had seemed even more reserved but at the same time possessed of a strange, near-frenetic energy. He had avoided his more intimate friends but dived feverishly into the events of the Season, attending parties and balls and dinners and performances of every sort, and he had danced once or twice at each event. He had even been seen to speak with a few young ladies, although the conversations never lasted long. Darcy's butler had confided to Fitzwilliam that he usually returned home after the events and collapsed, sleeping for several hours but arising the next morning looking as if he had not slept at all.

Then one day, Fitzwilliam had received a note from his cousin, informing him that their yearly visit to Kent was to occur three weeks earlier than normal and last almost a month, and that with only ten days' notice!

But as strange as all that was, the most remarkable oddities had appeared after their arrival in Kent. Darcy was even shorter and sharper with everyone than usual, even sometimes with Fitzwilliam, who could usually manage to bring him out of his typical brooding melancholy. Darcy's patience for Lady Catherine was as flimsy as paper, and his interest in Ann was nonexistent, despite several uncharacteristic attempts on her part to engage his attention. He walked a great deal, and when at Rosings, he was either puzzling over the accounts with Mr. Nelson, Lady Catherine's new steward, or standing at a window in the neglected library and gazing out over the grounds.

Except, that is, when Miss Bennet was present. He was still quieter than usual, but Fitzwilliam had seen him watching the young lady with his mouth set in a grim line, and he had gone out of his way on several occasions to initiate conversation with her, even if her usual response was merely to verbally spar with him. Fitzwilliam had chuckled to himself a few times regarding the possibility of Darcy being attracted to her obtuseness, but he had never seriously considered it. Darcy was too level-headed, too duty-bound to entertain thoughts of any sort of dalliance with or connection to a young lady as obscure as Miss Bennet, no matter how charming.

And yet, if he had gone to see her, sought a private interview with her on the day before he was to leave the county, that would strongly imply that he was not, after all, immune to the idea of a relationship between them. The consideration of the sort of relationship Darcy might have in mind propelled Fitzwilliam's legs into motion. He was back inside, retrieving his hat and walking stick in a matter of moments, and out the door again just in time to come across the Hunsford party crossing the courtyard.

He cursed under his breath at his own timing even as he smiled at their surprised greetings.

"Are you still seeking Mr. Darcy, Colonel?" Mrs. Collins asked politely.

"Yes. That is…" Fitzwilliam answered, hoping he did not look as flustered as he felt. He certainly had no wish to confess his suspicions to this particular audience. "I am told that he left just a few minutes ago for a final stroll before evening settled, and since he is reported to have gone in this direction, I wondered whether perhaps he would think to stop in and ask after Miss Bennet's recovery."

"Of course!" Mr. Collins crowed, his eyes glowing with his typical fanatical fervor. "Such wondrous condescension from all of the illustrious occupants of Rosings Park, even those who only come to visit, has never been known before in any other neighborhood! I am certain that, if Mr. Darcy truly deigned to stop and call in on my poor young cousin, she would be braced, uplifted, and healed by the very act of inquiry. We ought to make haste, Mrs. Collins, in case he is still there, that we might offer our gratitude in concert with Cousin Elizabeth's for his ineffable benevolence."

Mrs. Collins had been eyeing Fitzwilliam shrewdly during the whole of her husband's monologue, and it had taken all of Fitzwilliam's military nerve to keep from squirming. He normally had no problem lying for the sake of loyalty, comfort, or simplicity, but he was grateful that Mr. Collins had dragged Mrs. Collins ahead before her measuring stare forced him to confess the entire truth in one explosive burst.

Fitzwilliam offered no protest against the increased pace of their travel, although he was uncertain what he hoped to find on his arrival. Darcy might be a bloody, lovesick fool, but as far as he had seen, Miss Bennet had shown no signs of returning his regard besides a marked observation of Darcy's person, manners, and whereabouts. Perhaps she had denied him and he was even now roaming the grounds in long, angry strides and muttering under his breath.

But what if Fitzwilliam was wrong and Miss Bennet had harbored a secret passion for Darcy in return? Would they be discovered locked in an ardent embrace? Would they hide their liaison and behave as if they had only been discussing the state of the roads in preparation for his journey?

Perhaps he was not there at all. Perhaps he really was taking a walk and all this worry was for naught.

By the concern in Mrs. Collins' eyes as she glanced back at him over her shoulder more than once, he was not the only one who feared that was unlikely.

Mr. Collins hurried them at such a pace that there was little breath left for conversation, and they made excellent time across the grounds. They spilled into the parsonage entryway with little ceremony, and Fitzwilliam was the first to reach the parlor door, throwing it open unceremoniously.

It was empty.

Fitzwilliam's breath left him in a relieved rush. Darcy had not called on Miss Bennet after all. For a single moment, he actually considered falling on his knees and offering a prayer of gratitude. Darcy was not so lovesick as Fitzwilliam had feared, at least not enough to make confession. Unless, that is, he and Miss Bennet had already left.

No, they would have needed a carriage and trunks and preparation in order for him to spirit her back to London and install her in an apartment of her own. Taking a mistress was not something one accomplished on a whim. Although he could, even now, be upstairs _convincing_ her…

Fitzwilliam felt Mrs. Collins look into the room from behind his shoulder, release a relieved breath, then spin away. "Locken! We are home!"

Mr. Collins, his wife, and her sister stood in the small entry, removing their outer garments and watching the door from the kitchens expectantly. Fitzwilliam knew he should go, but he kept eyeing the stairs, hoping to hear from the servants that Miss Bennet was safely ensconced upstairs, resting and _alone,_ before he left to seek Darcy on the grounds.

The party stood waiting for several seconds before Mr. Collins began grumbling about having to stand holding his hat for rather longer than a busy clergyman should be expected to do. Mrs. Collins moved toward the kitchen, calling alternately for the cook, the maid, or the manservant. She disappeared through the door, leaving Fitzwilliam with Mr. Collins, who began muttering apologies to the colonel for his staff appearing to be inattentive, and Miss Lucas, who was still so cowed by Fitzwilliam after several weeks of acquaintance that she was unable to speak more than a word in his presence without blushing profusely.

"I see that Darcy is not here," he said slowly, wondering whether there might be a ladder in Mr. Collins's garden shed that would reach to the upper floor windows and which room might belong to Miss Bennet. "I shall bid you farewell then…"

"Mr. Collins!" Mrs. Collins shrieked from the kitchen. "Come quickly!"

Fitzwilliam was not summoned, but something about the dismay and alarm in her voice drew him to follow Mr. Collins through the door. Mrs. Collins was just disappearing through a smaller door into a larder.

The gentlemen followed her, as did Miss Lucas some steps behind, but they all stopped as they neared and the light from a lamp on the table shined into the back of the large, shelved closet. There were people in there!

Mr. Collins remained frozen in shock, but Fitzwilliam jumped forward, seeing that Mrs. Collins had already retrieved a small knife from a shelf and was cutting at a gag around the young maid's mouth. As soon as it was removed, the girl's whimpers escalated into full cries, although they were mostly garbled gibberish.

Mrs. Collins began working at thin ropes binding the girls' hands and feet while Fitzwilliam squeezed further in, removed a small dagger from his boot, and made short work of the bindings on first the cook and then the manservant, Locken. Their words tumbled from them as soon as their gags were removed, but it was not until they had been pulled from the closet and seated at a rough wooden table with glasses of sherry that they began to make any coherent sense.

"There was just so many of 'em, mistress!" the middle-aged, soup-faced cook said through tears while massaging her bruised wrists. "Locken tried to fight 'em off, but they were young and as big as oxen, all of 'em! They trussed us tight and threw us in the larder before we even knew what was happenin'!"

"I tried, missus," Locken said grimly, brushing thinning gray hair from off his forehead. "I had no chance. I couldna even move by the time they came back for wee Molly 'ere. Thank goodness they brought her back to us none the worse for wear."

"If you could all please calm down," Mrs. Collins said, worry lining every feature.

"Did they take anything?" Mr. Collins asked, his voice oddly high-pitched. "What did they take? How much?"

Miss Lucas stood in the corner of the kitchen whimpering.

Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes as all three servants began speaking at once.

"Quiet!" he roared, stepping forward and drawing everyone's attention. "Now, Locken, tell us everything that happened from the beginning."

The man launched into a somewhat wandering account that amounted to a group of three or four large men armed with knives and clubs swarming in from the front doorway, seizing and binding the three servants as they were preparing supper, and locking them in the closet. Then, a few minutes later, one had returned and taken Molly, the maid, away, then returned her soon afterward shaking and terrified. And then some unknown amount of time had passed until Mrs. Collins had heard their moans and opened the door.

Fitzwilliam turned to Molly, whose swollen wrists Mrs. Collins was doctoring with a cloth soaked in witch hazel. "What happened when the men removed you? And why did they?"

Molly, whose eyes were still bright with tears, looked down and to the side for a moment before answering quietly, "They just asked me whether Mrs. Collins kept all the silver in the cupboard they'd already broke, sir. I said yes, and then they took me back in the larder."

"The silver?" Mr. Collins screeched, running for a cupboard at the back of the kitchen. There was a lock on the door, but when Mr. Collins reached out to touch it, the door swung open, revealing that the mechanism had been yanked so hard it had tugged right through the opposite door, leaving a long, broken, shard hanging from the frame. Mr. Collins moaned piteously at the sight of the empty cupboard shelves.

Mrs. Collins winced but braced herself quickly, offering Molly a kind smile. "I would much rather have you whole and safe than have a few dishes. I am so sorry you were frightened."

Molly gave her a watery smile that Fitzwilliam thought looked rather forced, but he did not comment on it.

"What did the men look like?" he asked patiently. As an officer, he had some experience with questioning witnesses regarding misbehaving soldiers and officers, and he knew what was most important to get from a person before the memories drifted away. "The man who spoke to you, did you recognize him? Can you remember anything unique about his appearance?"

"I canna remember much," the girl said, looking down and to the side again while winding a strand of her flyaway hair around a finger. "The men were all tall and big, like Mr. Locken said, and the one who spoke had a right mean face, although he was smilin' pleasant enough at Miss Bennet, and he…"

"Miss Bennet!" Fitzwilliam cried at the same moment that Mrs. Collins wheeled around in distress and flew out the kitchen door toward the entry. He followed on her heels, both of them nearly flying up the staircase. How could they have forgotten her?

Mrs. Collins burst into the second bedroom on the left, calling out, "Lizzy!" The room was empty, and nothing was disturbed. The blankets on the bed were a little mussed, as if someone had laid out across the top of them, a shawl was draped over a chair at a small dressing table, and a few books were piled on the nightstand, but there was no evidence of anything having been moved or taken.

Mrs. Collins darted back out, going from room to room, growing more frantic as she discovered Miss Bennet was nowhere to be found. Fitzwilliam stood in the center of the upper hall, eyeing Mr. Collins, who had finally deigned to follow them up the stairs, and concentrating on the sick feeling swirling through his middle.

"Miss Bennet was ill when you left for Rosings this afternoon?"

"Yes, yes," Mr. Collins answered distractedly, his eyes roving from item to item along the walls. "She was pale and claimed to have a severe headache."

"Then she would not have gone out walking or to visit anyone?"

"I would imagine not."

"She is not here," Mrs. Collins said as she emerged from the last room on the floor, flushed and breathing heavily. "But her wrap, her spencer, and her bonnet are all on the table in her room, so she did not go out intentionally."

"She may be downstairs," Mr. Collins said, moving toward the far end of the hallway in a sudden rush. He added over his shoulder before entering a darkened room lined with bookshelves, "Perhaps she fell asleep or something."

Mrs. Collins plunged headlong down the stairs, but by the time Fitzwilliam had finished glaring after Mr. Collins and checking a few closets on the main floor, she had flown through all the other rooms and come up empty-handed. She stood very tall and straight in the center of the parlor, a picture of self-possession, but on approaching her, Fitzwilliam could see that her hands were shaking.

"Where could she be, Colonel?"

Fitzwilliam wanted to answer, wanted to assure this poor, frightened lady that her friend was safe and would be just fine, but as she looked up into his eyes with desperate inquiry, he knew he could not lie to her. "I do not know."

She turned her back on him, hunching her shoulders and wrapping her arms around herself. She made no sound, but her shoulders heaved once and a shudder ran through her.

He stood awkwardly for a minute or two, uncertain whether to leave her. It was painful to stand there watching, unable to help or to offer comfort as he wished to do. Where was Mr. Collins? It was his place—nay, his duty!—to take her in his arms and whisper words of hope and faith that all would be well, but the idiot man was upstairs combing through his possessions, entirely unconcerned about his missing cousin or his frightened wife. Fitzwilliam considered returning above stairs and dragging the man back down, but he strongly suspected that nothing about that man would be a comfort to this suffering woman.

The reality of her pitiable situation flashed on him all at once. As the wife of Mr. Collins, she was well-respected and comfortable, but away from her parents and home, she was alarmingly unaided here. Mr. Collins had provided her a living and a name, but he was as useless a husband as a stump of wood would be in a time of need, and in any truly difficult situation that arose in her life, she would always be alone.

Fitzwilliam stepped up beside her finally, offering his handkerchief. It was all he could do, and so much less than he _wished_ he could do, so much less than she deserved.

She accepted it without comment, wiping the silent tears that had streamed down her cheeks.

"I will do everything in my power to find your friend," he assured her quietly, feeling the depth of his sincerity ring through him like the cry of a bugle. "I swear it."

"Thank you, Colonel," she whispered, looking up at him with something like hope. "Anything you could do would be… Colonel? What is it?"

Fitzwilliam had frozen part way through turning back toward the parlor door.

No, it could not be.

That sick feeling still spinning inside him intensified so instantly that he was forced to close his eyes for a moment to fight a slight dizziness. When he opened them again, gazing toward the tabletop near the doorway, he uttered the most impolite curse he knew.

"What is the matter, sir?"

He strode silently across the room, stopping before the table and reaching out as slowly as possible to run his fingers across the smooth shaft of an ebony-handled walking stick. Beside it lay a familiar beaver hat and a piece of folded paper.

As he lifted the stick and grasped the familiar, well-worn, brass falcon handle, he unfolded the paper with his other hand and let his eyes run over the words. He felt Mrs. Collins move beside him and begin reading as well.

"Dear Mr. Collins,

"My friends and I wanted to thank you for your hospitality this evening, no matter how short a time we enjoyed it. Your home is lovely, and your staff was most accommodating. Given your reluctance to make good on the debt you have owed for some time, you will be comforted to know that we have gathered enough tonight to clear it all, including interest. I hope it was not nearly as painful as you had feared, nor as frustrating to your lovely wife.

"I do, however, regret to inform you that your houseguest's presence was required elsewhere. We have taken it upon ourselves to aid her in her journey posthaste, and I am certain she wishes for me to convey her regrets that she was not able to take proper leave of you. Worry not for her, dear sir, for she is in very capable hands.

"If you would be so good as to inform Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh of the darling Miss Bennet's change of plans, I would be ever so grateful. Would you pass them the message that I hope they are now far more aware of the seriousness of the intentions I conveyed to them in my previous communications?

"My thanks to you again, sir, and my best wishes to your dear wife. Here is a parting piece of advice: in future, I suggest that you avoid becoming so deeply indebted to anyone. It really is not healthy. Or wise.

"Warmest Regards,

"G. J. Smythe, Earl of Aberforth"

At the bottom, in a hastily scribbled postscript was added, "Please let Lady Catherine know that her beloved nephew shall be well looked after as well. He seemed most eager to join us, given Miss Bennet's presence among us, and who am I to deny a man's pleasure? Tell her that I insist Rosings' debt be paid within the next fortnight, for Miss Bennet's sake, and that I shall be contacting her within a fortnight to clarify a ransom for her nephew's safe return. Best wishes!"

Fitzwilliam held the note very still until he was certain Mrs. Collins had perused all the contents, and then he stepped back, holding the note in his hand and turning to face her.

"Lizzy and Mr. Darcy…" Mrs. Collins breathed.

Fitzwilliam nearly choked as he finished, "…have been kidnapped."


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you all for such a positive response to this story. I'll do my best to continue frequent postings, but sometimes life gets in the way._

 _I am not Jane Austen. I won't be her tomorrow either._

 _Chapter Two_

"Jane?" Lizzy moaned as she began to wake. Her voice was raspy, and she wondered whether she might be ill. That would explain her soreness and exhaustion. "Can you close the curtains? I would like to sleep a while longer."

There was no reply. She groaned and opened her eyes to look for her sister, realizing she must be quite ill indeed if Jane had risen before her and already gone down to breakfast.

What she saw brought the events of the evening rushing back, and she leaned up on her elbows with a sharp gasp. She was in a small, square room, possibly a chamber at an inn, with two raised cots against opposite walls, a small nightstand and chipped washbasin between them, and a rickety wardrobe on the far end. She lay upon one of the beds, wrapped in Mr. Collins' coat and a threadbare blanket, and the other was empty. The walls were whitewashed and bare, and the grate at the far end of the room lay cold. Sitting slumped in a chair near the empty fireplace was Mr. Darcy, his head lolled back against the wall, his breathing deep and slow, and his eyes closed.

Her immediate reaction was outrage. How _dare_ those wretched kidnappers leave her to sleep in a room with a man?

Then her sluggish thoughts reviewed the situation, and she realized that, for one thing, no one in this miserable place was even slightly concerned about her reputation, and for another, it was far better to be left alone with Mr. Darcy, no matter how awkward and uncomfortable, than with that man who conducted the previous night's fiasco.

She sat up slowly on her cot, relieved to discover that although her dress was wrinkled and soiled, she was still perfectly modest. She shivered against the chill of the room and wrapped the thin blanket around her shoulders before getting down as silently as possible and moving toward the chamber pot. It was, thankfully, situated in the private corner on the far side of the wardrobe, although she silently prayed that Mr. Darcy would not wake while she was thus occupied.

A few moments later, she was back on the bed, huddled in the corner. She had glanced out the small, grimy window above her bed as she returned, but it looked out on nothing but a brick wall a few feet away, allowing no other view. It had been sealed shut with several new nails, she noticed sourly. She could not even tell from the light what time it was beyond a general guess of late morning.

Where were they? How far had they traveled the previous night and in which direction? There was nothing Lizzy hated more than not knowing something important, and there were far too many unknowns in this circumstance.

She rubbed at her wrists, swollen and irritated from the rough bonds the previous night, and tried to stretch the stiffness from her shoulders and neck. It was no wonder, after such a night and such a ride, that she had woken believing she was severely ill.

Her mind traveled to Charlotte and what might be happening in Kent this morning. Her friend must be sick with worry. Had search parties been sent out? Had the local magistrate been summoned? Surely Lady Catherine would engage the entire county's assistance in seeking her lost nephew. Lizzy ought to be grateful to him because she knew his presence would inspire a much more intense search than hers alone.

She gazed at him curiously, strangely glad to have an opportunity to look him over at her leisure. She grimaced, however, when she noticed his bedraggled state. His boots were badly scuffed, and two of his coat's buttons were missing. He was dirty and disheveled, with deep circles around his eyes and a day's growth of beard on his chin. She was surprised at its thickness after so short a time. She drew in another quiet gasp when she noticed a dried trickle of blood from his lower lip. What had happened after she had fallen asleep last night?

She shook her head, a bitter humor washing over her. Truly, could anything else have possibly gone wrong in a single day than it had yesterday for her? First the discovery of Mr. Darcy's betrayal of his friend and her sister, then his shocking and insulting proposal, and then a _kidnapping_ and subsequent dark ride to parts unknown. She laughed dismally. She felt as if she were reading a truly terrible novel.

Except that no novel, terrible or otherwise, had ever inspired the true fear she felt wrapped up inside her. The moment she focused on it, she thought of the distance between herself and the world she knew, the brutal quiet of these men among whom she now traveled, and the chill that had rocked her as That Man had inhaled at her neck the night before.

She squashed the fear down mercilessly, certain that if she allowed it to rise, it would overwhelm her. She straightened, squaring her shoulders and pressing her lips together grimly. She was not a mouse, to be intimidated by cruelty and selfishness, no matter the source. She was strong enough to do what she must, whatever that might be. And if she trembled a bit while doing it, she could ignore it.

She looked over Mr. Darcy again, her determination fading as it was replaced by a strangely pervasive warmth. He might be the most arrogant, disdainful gentleman in the world, but the depth of his attachment to her, his willingness to sacrifice his own safety to remain with her amidst trials, could not but have some effect on her. Although she did not particularly like him or enjoy his company, she could not help but recognize his courage in trying to defend and protect her.

Besides, he looked particularly handsome this morning despite his unkempt state. He appeared younger when he slept, with the lines smoothed from his brow. Although the greatest appeal of his appearance might possibly be the belief that he had gotten his split lip in defense of her.

It was too bad that, upon awakening, he would probably return to his haughtiness and drive away all her gratitude.

She sighed audibly.

Mr. Darcy started at the sound, his eyes jerking open as he straightened in the chair. "Miss Bennet? Are you all right?"

"I am well enough, sir. Forgive me for awakening you."

He examined the room carefully before leaning over his lap, rubbing at his eyes, running his hands through his unruly dark hair, and grimacing as he discovered the roughness of his chin. "No, no. I never meant to sleep, at least not for so long."

"We both needed rest. I am glad you found some. Although next time, you should consider the other bed, as I suspect that chair was terribly uncomfortable."

He stood and moved to the window, although not before she noticed a blush of discomfort. "I did not wish for you to be made more distressed than these circumstances have already… that is, I feared that…" He released a deep sigh. "I know this situation is untenable, but I shall do my best to make it as bearable as possible for you."

"Is that why you changed your plan last night and asked to accompany the kidnappers?" Lizzy asked sharply. "To ensure that my pillows are fluffed properly? I admit, sir, that I am expecting little in the way of comfort or succor amidst these conditions. But had you remained behind, you could have immediately led a charge for my recovery, or sent a message to my father. As things stand now, we have no idea what the horrid man said in his note to Mr. Collins or whether anyone knows where we have gone."

"I considered that," Mr. Darcy said ruefully, turning back to face her. "But I would have been tied up until Mr. and Mrs. Collins returned home, which might not have been for some hours, and by then it would have been too dark to effectively search for you until this morning. I could have made certain the search was mounted and encouraged, but I could not bear the thought of what might happen to you in the interim."

"I would have been fine."

He raised his eyebrows. "You do not know that."

"I am strong enough…"

"Not to overpower a tall, strong gentleman who is far more concerned about his own pleasures than your virtue."

"Perhaps he did not intend to harm me," Lizzy answered, blushing but determined. "It was obvious that he was playing on your… wish to protect me."

"I know. He was very shrewd in assessing what was most important to me. I simply could not allow you to be taken out of the reach of my aid. I do not like being manipulated, but he played his cards well, and I could do naught but comply. I could not then, nor could I ever, bear to see you harmed when it was in my power to protect you. I swear, I will do whatever is necessary to watch over you."

"But still, you should have…"

"Miss Bennet," Mr. Darcy interrupted. "Regardless of what led to all this, we are stuck together now, for good or ill. Must we spend the duration of our imprisonment arguing?"

Lizzy stopped in surprise then looked down, ashamed. Why was she picking a fight? She already understood his reasoning, and she was earnestly grateful to him for his presence.

She smiled sheepishly at him. "It is possible, sir, that arguing with you is merely traditional. They say in times of difficulty one falls back on one's habits. And besides, I was under the impression all this time that you rather enjoyed arguing with and aggravating me."

He smiled back uncertainly. "I do, in fact, although I see now how that might have become annoying to you. I find myself constantly fascinated by the quickness and intelligence of your mind, and you are rarely in such fine intellectual form as when you are trying to needle my pride. I often could not help myself."

Lizzy barked a surprised laugh. "And here I always thought you were seeking opportunity to mock and disapprove of me! Oh, how fiercely we have misunderstood one another!"

He smiled for another moment before the expression faded and he looked away. "Quite grievously, it would seem."

Lizzy winced but could think of nothing to say. They were quiet for a few minutes, and it was only a loud rumbling in her empty stomach that drew them mutually from their reverie.

Mr. Darcy chuckled. "Yes, I have rather been wondering about breakfast myself."

"I wonder how they mean to treat us. I know we are captives, but That Man last night seemed so _eager_ for our presence that I feel uncertain regarding what to expect. Shall it be crusts of bread and water, do you think, or normal tavern fare? I assume that is where we are."

"Yes. It was too dark to see the sign over the door as we entered last night, but it was clearly a tavern and inn. This a small town, rather like Meryton, and from what I could gather from my position slung over the horse like a sack of meal, we mostly traveled south."

"So we are somewhere in Sussex?"

"That is my guess. I have not seen or heard the sea, but somehow I feel as if we cannot be very far from it."

"Mama is always telling Papa how much she wishes to travel to the seaside. I am certain she shall be mightily jealous when she hears where I have gone." The words escaped with a bitterly sardonic twist. Lizzy was immediately disappointed in herself. "Forgive me. I should not be so flippant."

"You have been threatened and kidnapped, and after a dark, brutal ride, you are now locked in cold, mediocre accommodations with the man you despise more than any other in the world for an undisclosed amount of time and for some nefarious purpose. I believe, my dear Miss Bennet, that in these particular circumstances, you have a right to be whatever you wish to be, sarcastic or otherwise."

"Oh, Mr. Darcy," she said sadly, "if you are trying to make me feel wretched for what I said yesterday, you are succeeding."

He jumped to his feet and moved toward her, alarmed. "No! No, that was not at all my intent." He sat on the edge of the opposite bed. "I will admit that your words stung very deeply, and had I returned to Rosings last night, I would have done so full of wounded pride and bitterness. But I have had a great deal of time to think since then, and I have begun to see with disagreeable clarity just how much of your unflattering opinion of me is my own fault. Forgive me if I still sound angry."

Lizzy knew not what to say, so flummoxed was she by his admission. She stared at his open, earnest expression for several moments before he grew uncomfortable and stood again, moving toward the useless window.

"Sir, I… I am uncertain how to respond to your words. I spoke in anger yesterday, with unwarranted harshness, and I am sorry for being so uncivil. You took me by surprise, and your confession came far too soon after discovering your part in separating your friend from my sister. I was unable to maintain my temper. But I admit that I can still find little forgiveness in my heart for those things of which I yesterday accused you."

"Does she…?" He hesitated, his back still turned to her. "Did she love him then?"

"Jane? Most deeply, yes," Lizzy answered with a bit too much force. "She even assented to my idea that she should go to London, that she might see Mr. Bingley again, but he has been kept separate from her, whether by his own will or that of his sisters, I know not."

Poor Jane. And now, to carry on top of her other unhappiness, she would be devastated at hearing of Lizzy's abduction. Lizzy assumed Jane would rush home at once to console their family. But when would they learn of the event? Charlotte and Mr. Collins would have returned home around six or seven o'clock, and they would have immediately notified Lady Catherine and Colonel Fitzwilliam. Lizzy was certain Charlotte would also have an express sent as soon as possible. Her family might have learned of it before she and Mr. Darcy had even awoken this morning.

Somehow, it was both comforting and discouraging to think of their reaction to the news. Her Mama would be wailing and retire to her rooms, and she would probably quickly find a way to blame Lizzy for her own misfortune. Her younger sisters would be shocked and concerned, but Lydia would assume it was all a great romantic adventure, Kitty would bite her fingernails to the quick and cough constantly, and Mary would take to playing dirges on the pianoforte. Jane would move from one sister to another while still managing to sit beside Mama and listen to her troubles, all while shedding silent, brave, loving tears. And Papa…

For the first time since the beginning of Mr. Darcy's proposal, Lizzy felt the catch in her throat that told her she was going to cry. Papa would be brokenhearted. He might even now be riding for Kent, perhaps in company with Uncle Phillips and Uncle Gardiner. He would be upbraiding himself for not watching over her more carefully, although this could in no way be his fault. They would do their best to rescue her, perhaps joining Colonel Fitzwilliam in the search, but would they even know where to begin?

"Bingley does not know she is there."

Lizzy looked up at Mr. Darcy's back in surprise. It took her a moment to return to their previous conversation. "He does not?"

"Miss Bingley chose not to inform him. We thought it might be too difficult for him."

"We? You knew Jane was in town as well?"

He took several seconds to answer, during all of which Lizzy was staring at his stiff shoulders so hard that her eyes hurt.

"Yes."

All good feeling, all gratitude and appreciation she had developed for the infuriating man blew out like a candle flame in a gale. She wanted to speak, to call him every horrible name she had ever heard, but she was too angry. Finally, with great effort, she breathlessly forced out the words, "How could you?"

All his arrogance seemed to have returned, and his voice was steeped in condescension. "From the first moment of Bingley's introduction to your sister, I was aware of his preference for her, but it was not unusual for Bingley to quickly attach himself to a lovely young lady and just as quickly lose interest in her. I had no real concerns until the night of the Netherfield Ball when I realized it was a general expectation in the neighborhood that he would soon make her an offer. I watched them carefully that night, and although she received his attentions with pleasure, I saw no symptoms of love or even true affection."

"Jane is most reserved!" Lizzy cried. "Only someone who knows her as well as I do would have seen her true feelings, as is most proper for a young lady. What is it you think she should have done? Swooned at his entrance into a room, fluttered her eyelashes, and hung on his arm at every opportunity? Miss Bingley is not a lady after whom Jane should pattern herself!"

"But she smiles so serenely," he argued, finally turning back to face her. "Her smile for Bingley was exactly the same as that with which she greeted her sisters or the postman or a shopkeeper. The only emotion she ever betrays is contentedness. How was I to know, or Bingley for that matter? He would not have been so easily convinced of her indifference if he had not already feared it."

"Convinced?" Lizzy shrieked, rising to her feet. "You are the one who talked him into staying in London, too, are you not?"

"Bingley trusts me implicitly, and I had no idea I was incorrect in my assessment. None of our other arguments had swayed him, not our reminder of your family's lack of connection or their general public behavior, but my assertion that I believed your sister's feelings to be unengaged was deeply concerning to him. No man ought to be trapped into an indifferent union."

"Trapped? You believed Jane was trying to capture him? Have you no understanding of human nature whatsoever?"

Mr. Darcy held up his hands in a defensive position. "Wait! I never thought ill of your sister. She was everything genteel and elegant, if aloof. But we were all concerned that one with such an easy disposition as hers might be convinced by… well-meaning relations to accept his suit without much real affection."

"You thought Mama had instructed her to catch him?" The words came out sounding outraged, but even as she finished her statement, Lizzy felt her righteous anger begin to collapse. That was exactly what she had done. It was just lucky for Jane that she happened to have fallen in love with Bingley and had her own interest in holding his attention. What would she have done if she had not learned to care for him? Would she still have accepted his affections for the sake of her family's future?

Lizzy cringed at the answer to her own question.

"I had no reason to think otherwise."

They sat in fraught silence as Lizzy's mind churned, forced suddenly to see the entire autumn through different eyes. Charlotte had warned Lizzy that Jane should show more affection right at the beginning, and Lizzy had brushed it off, but she had to admit that Charlotte may have been wiser than Lizzy or Jane herself. Even a man as cheerful and modest as Mr. Bingley needed some encouragement in his suit.

"I do regret my deception," Mr. Darcy said, watching Lizzy with wariness, probably afraid the calm would not last long. "In all my other actions, I was focused solely on Bingley's best interests. I truly feared the outcome of a union with your sister, not for the sake of his fortune or reputation but for his heart. But in keeping her presence from him, I acted beneath my character. At the time I believed it was for the best, but I believe my motives were, by then, more selfish than anything."

"Selfish in what way?"

Mr. Darcy looked up at her with sudden intensity. "I feared that a renewed connection to Hertfordshire would bring me back into contact with you and upset the delicate balance I was maintaining between thinking of you every moment and resolving never to see you again."

"Oh."

Lizzy could not quite understand her reaction to his words. She was ashamed and angry again at his reference to the disparity in their circumstances, but she was also strangely moved by his assertion that she had been so much in his mind. It was one thing for a man to fall in love with a woman, but for a man to love a woman so deeply that he was willing to go against his character, expectations, and interests was quite… affecting.

"I am sorry, Miss Bennet, for hurting your sister. That was never my intention."

Lizzy answered him with one hesitant nod. Did she accept his explanation? She was uncertain. She needed time to think, preferably time alone, which it did not seem like she would be getting this morning.

"Do you believe that she…?" he began.

"Good morning in there!" called That Man through the door, causing Lizzy to gasp sharply and return to her huddled position on the cot. Mr. Darcy spun and placed himself at the entrance to the narrow walkway between the bedsteads, planting his feet solidly as if ready for a fight.

There was the scraping sound of a key in the lock, as well as the sound of wood rubbing against wood, and then That Man strode in, looking as chipper and good-humored as if he were the master of ceremonies at a ball. "Well, well, well! How are we this morning?"

Lizzy was newly surprised by how normal he looked in the fuzzy morning light. She would have felt much better, she decided, if he sported a sinister mustachio or wore a large dark hat with a black feather. And he needed a scar, a deep slash across one eyelid or along his cheek. Instead he looked just like any other gentleman, just as well-dressed as he had been the previous night and wearing his fair hair loose to his shoulders. His smile was kind and eager, and his eyes twinkled at her. They were blue, she realized, just like Papa's. The comparison made her dislike him all the more. A man such as him did not deserve to share any trait whatsoever with her father.

She had overheard him called Geoff last night, but she refused to think of him in such intimate terms.

"We are hungry," Mr. Darcy answered stiffly. "And cold."

"Of course!" He motioned to someone behind him. "The first I shall solve right away."

A man entered carrying a tray with several dishes. Lizzy thought he might be one of the other men from the night before, but she could not be certain. They had all looked mostly the same to her, dark-haired, broad-chested, and unremarkable. She examined him more closely and noticed that the man's left hand was slightly scarred, as if it had been burned in a fire many years before. She would remember him by that.

She determined all that before he set the tray on a small chest she had not noticed at the foot of her bed. After he lowered it, most of her attention went to the food. Toast, eggs, potatoes… even a pot of jam. She sighed in relief. She had resolved to accept crusts of bread, but this would be much better.

"Now, as to your second request," That Man said, smiling sheepishly, "I have a solution, but I am afraid the lady may have some qualms. Alas, it cannot be helped."

Mr. Darcy tensed even further. "What do you mean?"

Another of the large men entered (this one with a cleft in his chin that Lizzy decided was distinctive enough to mark him) carrying a pile of clothing in his arms. He dropped it on the end of the far bed, smirking slightly at the dark look Mr. Darcy had given him before he drew back.

"We are leaving this quaint little place in just a few minutes, and given the cooler air this morning and the lady's lack of warm clothing—for which I blame myself entirely and can only beg your forgiveness, my darling—I suggest that you change into those."

Lizzy stood and moved to the pile, keeping her body still mostly behind Mr. Darcy's, as if she believed he could block her from view. She sorted through the clothes. "Sir, there are no lady's garments here."

"Yes," That Man replied with a sympathetic frown. "You see, we will be traveling at some speed through more populated areas today, and as it would look rather strange for a lone woman to be carried amongst a group of horsemen, you will need to dress yourself as a young man."

"I beg your pardon!" Mr. Darcy protested. He spun to glance over the clothing Lizzy had laid out before turning back. "You cannot ask a lady to expose herself in such an inappropriate manner!"

"Actually," That Man answered, fingering the sword at his hip casually, "as I believe I already proved to you last night, I can."

Lizzy's eyes fixed on the two large men behind him, both of whom were watching Mr. Darcy with dark grins, and she grabbed his arm before he could speak further. "It will be fine. Please."

He gave her a pop-eyed look and opened his mouth, but Lizzy reached up and covered his mouth with her hand. "I have worn trousers before. It is fine."

That seemed to give him pause, as did the laugh that escaped That Man. "You have?" they both asked.

She rolled her eyes. "It is difficult to play Pirate in the forest in a skirt."

That Man crowed in delight and clapped his hands together. "My dear lady, you become more and more intriguing every moment! Are you certain your heart already belongs to this over-starched idiot? Even if it does, I think I shall try to win it from him." He gave Mr. Darcy a measuring look before shooting Lizzy another wide grin. "It should not be terribly difficult."

Lizzy drew in a surprised breath. Somehow, through all of last night and Mr. Darcy's words to That Man, it had never occurred to her that That Man would believe they were a pair of lovers. It was so clear in her own mind that she was _not_ in love with Mr. Darcy that she could hardly understand how anyone could believe otherwise. But clearly he thought that was what Mr. Darcy had meant in Charlotte's parlor, and as she considered it quickly, it was probably wisest for her to act the part, as galling as it was. Mr. Darcy's presence and guarantee of payment only if she went unharmed were probably all that had protected her virtue so far.

"I am sorry, sir," she said sarcastically, stepping forward to wrap her arm through Mr. Darcy's, "but even if I were _not_ in love with him, I highly doubt that I could think tenderly of the man who abducted me."

The man grinned slyly and winked at her. "You might be surprised, Miss Bennet." Then he drew himself up and backed toward the door, always keeping his face toward Mr. Darcy, just in case of attack. "Break your fast and get changed. Mr. Darcy, there are clean garments there for you as well. After all, we cannot have you looking either so wealthy or so unkempt, can we? I would also encourage you to shave, but as I do not quite trust you with a razor, we shall make do with clean apparel. We will leave in a quarter of an hour, and if you are not dressed in that time, Miss Bennet, I will be happy to return and assist you myself."

His men preceded him out the door, and he stepped through, moving to close the door, but Mr. Darcy stepped forward, dropping Lizzy's arm. "Stop! You cannot leave me in here with her while she changes."

That Man paused, cocking his head. "Why not?"

"Because… that is…" Lizzy thought Mr. Darcy might burn up from the heat in his cheeks. "She deserves privacy. And she needs a maid to help her."

"But…" That Man's voice trailed off, and he grinned that horrid, handsome grin at Mr. Darcy again. "You have not yet conquered her, have you? You say you love her, and yet you leave her unclaimed? That leaves the door all the wider for myself!"

"'Tis not that," Lizzy interjected, praying he would interpret her blush as modesty not falsehood. "I am _claimed,_ as you so indelicately put it. He is just cautious of respecting me. He is very thoughtful that way."

"I cannot imagine he is what you really want," That Man argued boldly. "You are so vibrant, and he is so… tedious."

Lizzy wanted to laugh at how closely his description matched her own very recent notion of Mr. Darcy, but she fought it down and did her best to look offended for his sake. "He is a man who controls his passions, sir. That makes them all the more compelling when they are released."

"Hmmm."

The only other man she definitely recognized from the previous night, the dark, square-jawed one called Reg, appeared in the corridor and spoke to That Man quietly. The leader nodded at Reg's words and looked over his shoulder, winking at Lizzy. "I am certain you and I shall canvas this topic more thoroughly later, particularly as regards _passion_ , but for now, get dressed. The clock is ticking."

Then he shut the door, and the key scraped sharply again in the lock.

"Miss Bennet, I…"

Lizzy waited, but Mr. Darcy seemed not to know what else to say. He was turned toward her again but was unable to look her in the eye.

"You had best not be preparing to apologize for anything, sir." She was suddenly exasperated. Who would have thought only twenty-four hours before that she would have been not only forced into pretending to be in love with Mr. Darcy but having to imply she was his willing lover? The ladies of Hertfordshire would be aghast. Lizzy was a little shocked at her own audacity as well. "We find ourselves in challenging circumstances, and we are doing the best we can with what we are given. From now on, neither of us is allowed to apologize for anything we are required to do or say for the maintenance of our own safety during this escapade. Agreed?"

He sighed deeply and scrubbed his hands over his face. "I suppose so. What other choice is there?"

"None."

Lizzy turned determinedly back to the clothes on the bed. They were not nearly so fine as the ones Mr. Darcy and That Man were wearing, but they were clean and of acceptable quality. She thought they might even fit her well-enough. She could not help but wonder where they had gotten them.

"Miss Bennet?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Does the banning of all apologies include apologizing for pointing out to you that you still have no lady's maid to assist you?"

"Yes, it does. I regularly do without a maid, and I am perfectly capable of dressing myself, thank you."

"'Tis only that Georgiana had a dress like yours when she was very young. She required help from her nursemaid because of all the tiny buttons on the back."

Lizzy felt herself go boneless with shock, and she slumped onto the edge of the bed, clutching the long boy's shirt in her hands. He was right. Charlotte's Molly had helped her dress herself the previous morning for just that reason. What had possessed her to wear that particular dress that particular day? Any other dress would have done just as well.

She had no option besides the obvious one, but it was still nearly a full minute before she was able to choke out the words, "Then you shall have to help me."

"I cannot," he said. Was his voice shaky? Lizzy did not have the courage to look up at his expression. "You cannot ask it."

"There is no other choice. I cannot undo the buttons myself—they are too small—and I cannot cut the dress off because for all I know, it will be my only one for some time. If we delay too long, That Man will return, and I would rather be dead that let him assist me." The words were dramatic, but she meant them with all her heart.

"As would I," he agreed in a thin voice.

"Then, having no other choice, we must simply move forward. Just… close your eyes." She turned her back to him, removing the blanket from her shoulders. Her cheeks were on fire, but she gritted her teeth and stood very still.

Several seconds passed before she felt the hesitant pressure of his fingers against the clasp at the base of her neck, and she swallowed deeply against the rush of nerves. This was fine. No one at home would ever know of these humiliations, and whatever else she felt about Mr. Darcy, she was certain that he would never speak of this to a living soul.

He began slowly, doing the first few buttons fumblingly, but after that, he sped up, and it was only a minute or two before enough of the line had been released that she felt she could remove the dress. "That's enough," she said quickly. "Now turn your back."

She heard him spin away, gather his own garments, and cross to the far side of the room. She drew in a single deep breath, then changed as quickly as she could, removing her garments and replacing them with those before her, including the bandage-like wrap that she assumed was intended to bind her chest. She ignored the sounds of shifting fabric from behind her and forced herself not to think at all about what she could not see occurring.

Finally, a few minutes after he had stopped making any noise and as put together as she could manage, she turned around, smirking at the sight of Mr. Darcy staring out the window. His new garments were obviously not tailored for him, but they were decent enough, and she thought the beige of the coat rather suited him. He seemed less austere than in the dark colors he always preferred. "I am ready, I think."

He glanced at her and straightened, his eyes widening so far she thought they might pop from his head.

"Breeches are rather indecent, are they not?" she asked, shifting uncomfortably under his scrutiny. The breeches were tan and closely-fitted, and the waistcoat was a muted red under a thick, brown wool jacket. "'Tis a wonder men wear them around all the time." She already missed the heaviness of her skirt and petticoats around her legs, but the jacket under Mr. Collins' greatcoat was enough to keep her from shivering.

He did not answer her, just continued staring.

"I cannot tie a cravat, I discovered," she said quietly, her eyes flicking down.

Mr. Darcy moved stiffly toward her, and without a word, he stepped behind her, raising his hands to her neck-cloth and smoothly tying a simple knot in only a few movements. He lowered his arms but didn't step away, and Lizzy was surprised at how much warmth he exuded, how much she wanted to lean back into him. She must still be extremely cold.

"Your hair," he said, apparently unable or unwilling to say more than that. His pride must be so mortified by this fiasco that he could not even speak.

Lizzy reached back and began pulling the few remaining pins and finger-combing it. She plaited it quickly from the top of her head before wrapping it into a messy twist and stuffing it under the hat. She turned to him and held her arms out. "Well? Do I look the part?"

"You still look like a woman, only wearing a man's clothes," he answered roughly. "You must _move_ as a man, less grace and more force."

Elizabeth walked a few circles around the room, imagining the way her father walked, and Mr. Bingley, and Sir William.

"Better," Mr. Darcy said. "As long as you keep your eyes down and do not smile, you should be hidden enough."

"Is my smile so feminine?" she laughed. "I had no idea a facial expression could be male or female."

"Your smile makes your face quite… noticeable. It makes your eyes brighten. It will draw attention that might be undesirable."

Lizzy frowned, wondering whether that was a compliment.

"Yes, that expression is much better."

"Well," she said, rolling her eyes, "I suspect I shall not have much reason for smiling anyway."

"I would have said that about this morning's circumstances already, yet you have managed to smile several times."

"Well, so have you!" she defended, only belatedly wondering why she had taken his words as accusation.

In acknowledgement, he offered another slight smile. "True enough. Perhaps we must both work harder to be distressed about our own abduction."

She laughed, and he joined her, as much out of wonder as out of humor. He was right—things were horrible, and yet they were both finding reasons to smile. Their laughter faded as their gazes caught, and Lizzy felt something shift inside her, something that brought another rush of blood to her cheeks. How could a man who only twenty minutes before had so angered her suddenly provide her a source of such solace in a distressing circumstance?

"Do you think, sir," Lizzy asked quietly, "that it might be possible for us to escape?"

"I suggest that we both seek opportunities," he replied, his voice lowering to a whisper, "but we must be incredibly cautious. For the moment, these men seem disinterested in harming us, so the need to run is not immediate. However, the longer we are gone, the greater the risk to your reputation and eventual safety. If a chance arises, we must be ready to take it, but we must be wise and not act out of fear."

Lizzy nodded solemnly, encouraged by both his willingness to consider the idea and the astuteness of his response. She supposed there were far worse people who might have been her companions on this adventure. What if she had been abducted with Mr. Collins instead?

They had just finished eating when the lock on the door scraped again, and Mr. Darcy moved in front of her. Lizzy was unsure whether he was making a last effort to guard her modesty or was simply protective by instinct, but she found that she did not mind. She allowed herself to reach out and clutch at his sleeve, finding comfort in the childlike gesture.

"Come," said one of the brawny assistants with a sharp wave.

"Miss Bennet?" Mr. Darcy asked, raising his arm for her. She wrapped both hands around his forearm and stood as near him as she reasonably could. He covered her hands with his free hand, and they moved forward. She would have to separate from him at the end of the corridor (after all, she was dressed as a man), but she would hold onto him for as long as she could.

Whatever else he was, however arrogant or disdainful or selfish, she felt safe with him, knew he would protect her as best he could. A wave of warmth washed over her as she looked up at his face. Perhaps he was not so bad after all.

* * *

As Colonel Fitzwilliam pulled up in front of the Hunsford parsonage and tethered Charlemagne, his beloved mount, to the front fence, he motioned to the men behind him to continue down the road. He called out to Mr. Nelson, Lady Catherine's steward, "Go on back. Make sure all the men receive an extra week's wages and a good, hot meal. I shall be along presently to report to Lady Catherine."

He was not looking forward to _that_ conversation at all, especially not the part about promising her gardeners, stable-hands, and other workmen extra pay on her behalf. Although that portion would probably be received better than the part where he must tell her that Darcy and Miss Bennet's trail was impossible to follow for more than ten miles.

He wanted to hold his hands over his ears even imagining her blistering response.

But honestly, he had done all he could for now. As soon as he and Mrs. Collins had realized what had occurred the previous night, Fitzwilliam had returned to Rosings, shown Lady Catherine the letter, rounded up as many men as he could find, and lit out on the trail of the large pack of hoof tracks leading down the western road toward the nearest village. It had grown more difficult as the night had darkened, but they had managed to make reasonable time until coming to a meeting of several roads just outside a small town called Coxton, approximately six miles from Rosings. There had been too many prints leading from there in all directions, and there were no reports of any large parties stopping there the previous night to water horses or rest. No one in the town had noticed anything untoward, and beyond there, the possible directions were practically endless.

If Fitzwilliam had been free to follow them as long as he desired, he would have tried the south road. His instincts pointed him toward the coast, and as a soldier he trusted his instincts above almost anything, but the men were cold and tired and expected back at their homes and their work the next morning, and he could not afford to lead them on a road that would only take them further from their goal.

Besides, as per Lady Catherine's express order, he had told no one, not even Nelson, that they were tracking more than just a band of thieves. No one but himself had known that Darcy and Miss Bennet had been taken.

Fitzwilliam had balked at the order at first, but the more he had considered it, the more he had seen that Lady Catherine's request had been wise. It would do no good for the country at large to know that Darcy had been kidnapped—no extra help would be offered, and it would only become a source of gossip. And even less good would come of knowing that Miss Bennet had also been taken. Rumors would circulate, scandal would be sniffed, and her reputation would never be pristine again, no matter the truth.

No, he could follow no further this day without alerting the men to the truth of the circumstances, although he would return as soon as he had rested and prepared more completely and take up the trail on his own.

Whatever else happened, he would _not_ allow the abduction of his favorite cousin to occur right under his nose without doing everything he could to offer aid. Although Fitzwilliam could not help but wonder whether Darcy was not, at that moment, exactly where he wished to be, which was wherever Miss Bennet was regardless of the circumstances.

He was still uncertain regarding Darcy's obvious attachment to Miss Bennet. Darcy had been at the parsonage last night, whatever his purpose, and Fitzwilliam had to assume that it had been at the behest of his heart and not with some other more sensible intent. He had too much faith in his cousin's good sense to believe he might have proposed—the notion of Darcy joining himself publically to any lady less illustrious than the most eligible debutante of the Ton was impossible to contemplate. And yet, it was equally difficult to imagine Darcy bribing or seducing the bright-eyed young lady into any less upstanding connection.

Privately, Fitzwilliam thought the bribery was more likely to succeed than any attempt at seduction. He had seen Darcy's attempts at flirtation as a younger man, before his father's passing, and had confided to his elder brother Andrew that it would be a miracle if even Darcy's wealth could buy his way through a lady's chamber door once he opened his mouth.

He had never actually seen Darcy make earnest advances on any woman, of low rank or high, now that he thought of it. He had always been a reserved, private sort of fellow, and he had just begun to consider engaging in the amorous pursuits of his peers when his father had died, leaving him rather too much responsibility and too much hatred for public attention or scandal of any kind to utilize the services of a courtesan or an obliging widow.

For the last few years, however, Fitzwilliam had been much on the Continent and busy with his assignments, and they had spent less time together. Perhaps Darcy had overcome his conscience and whetted his appetites without ever mentioning his conquests to his cousin. He was, after all, not a bragging sort of man, and he had never participated in such conversations among their mutual friends or at his club.

Fitzwilliam shook his head as he finished moving up the tidy pathway to the front door and knocked sharply. Darcy's connection to Miss Bennet was a mystery over which to puzzle _after_ they were both discovered and returned home safe and well.

Little Molly opened the door, and at the sight of him, her eyes shot down to the ground as she backed the door further open. "Welcome, Colonel. Mrs. Collins said to show you into the parlor as soon as you arrived."

"Thank you, Molly," he said, watching her carefully and moving past with deliberate slowness. He was uncertain, but his instincts told him there was more to the girl's involvement than she was saying. But how did one interrogate a child? "I hope you have recovered after your ordeal last night."

"Yes, sir," she answered, fingering the bruising around her wrists. "Mrs. Locken made a poultice that helped a bit with the soreness."

"I am glad to hear it. Molly, is there anything else you wish to tell me about last night? Anything you have remembered since we spoke? Everything was so shocking, it would be no surprise if things came to your mind later on."

She swallowed and avoided meeting his eyes. "Nothing, sir. I… I already told Mrs. Collins—I don't remember much, it was that frightening."

"Of course, of course. Well, if anything comes to mind, do not hesitate to speak of it."

"Yes, sir."

After one last look, Fitzwilliam handed her his hat and strode toward the parlor, tugging open the door himself.

Mrs. Collins was sitting in a wingback chair near the fireplace, and although her hands were busily working a needle through the seam of a shapeless brown garment, her gaze was absent, as if frozen on the fabric. She was biting her lip gently, and there was a deep crease between her eyes.

Perhaps there was a sort of beauty to her after all, he realized with surprise. She was not showy, and neither her sedate hairstyle nor her favored style of gown flattered her undramatic figure and coloring, but the sight of her sitting quietly by the grate with the warmth of the flames lending a little color to her cheeks was pleasing to him on a level he could not quite understand.

"Mrs. Collins."

She started, and at the sight of him, she pushed her mending off her lap, stepped heedlessly over the heap on the floor, and rushed at him with an eager smile. She reached out and grasped both of his hands. "Colonel! I am so glad you have returned!"

For just a moment, for the space of a single breath, Fitzwilliam let himself imagine what it would be like if this were, in fact, his home, and if Mrs. Collins was not Mrs. Collins at all but Mrs. Fitzwilliam. What would it be like to return home after a few weeks away, or even just a day or two, and find her waiting there, staring into the fire and worrying for him? What would it be like to speak her name and have her run to him with that same relieved, delighted smile?

He would gather her in his arms and kiss her senseless, and the fact that he could picture that so vividly was not only shocking but perfectly frightening.

Luckily he kept his wits and restricted himself to squeezing her hands gently.

"You look exhausted," she said. "Did you just return?"

"I promised to come here first, did I not?" he asked, offering what was supposed to be a charming smile. Unfortunately even his cheeks were tired, and all he managed was a grimace.

Her smile drooped, too. "You could not find them, I take it."

He shook his head, wishing his answer could be different. "They came to a busy crossroads, and their trail disappeared. No one along the way saw or heard them, at least no one we could question subtly in the middle of the night. It seems as if they vanished into the night air. I will return to Rosings, gather up everything I will need, and set out again to track them on my own."

"Is there no one you can take with you? It might be dangerous."

"I will move more quickly alone. There is no need to worry about an old soldier like myself, madam."

"Not _so_ old," she smiled, "but not so indestructible either, I suspect."

"Perhaps not, but enough to be going along with."

They smiled warmly at one another, and Fitzwilliam felt that strange tightening in his chest that he had felt at the thought of kissing her a moment before. He cleared his throat and reluctantly released her delicate fingers, turning to the window and saying, "I suppose I ought to take some time to interrogate your servants more thoroughly before I leave. It would be useful to get less hurried descriptions of the kidnappers. And I apologize if it embarrasses you, Mrs. Collins, but I really must speak to your husband."

He glanced back and was surprised at the darkness of the expression that passed over her face. "Mr. Collins has already been questioned, sir," she said, sounding surprisingly clipped and angry, like one of his officers during a skirmish. "And after listening to Mr. and Mrs. Locken's descriptions, I took it upon myself to draw a likeness of the man they described. Molly said she had been too frightened to look much at his face, but that what I rendered 'seemed a bit familiar.'" She crossed back to a small table near her chair and handed him a sheet of stationery.

He stared at the image grinning up at him from the page. The features of the man's face were rather unexceptional except for the wide smile showing remarkably straight teeth, but his long, light hair was distinctive, even pulled back in a tie, as were his pale eyes.

"The other men were unremarkable, they said, all with short, dark hair and genteel dress, but although they only saw this man for a moment, they agreed he was the leader. He had the speech and bearing of a gentleman, attire of a quality similar to yours and Mr. Darcy's, and a gentleman's commanding manner. They described him as strangely friendly given that he was issuing orders for them to be trussed like pigs."

Fitzwilliam tore his eyes from the sketch. "You drew this, Mrs. Collins?"

She blushed a little. "I know it is rough, but without seeing his face for myself, I would rather not guess wrong about his features…"

"This is excellent! Do you deliberately hide this accomplishment?"

She shrugged, turning away from him slightly. "I would not call it much of an accomplishment, sir. I am useless at music and only passable at embroidery and hat-trimming. My two abilities seem to be mending and portraiture, not even nature studies or bowls of fruit. Faces… faces are all I have the capacity to recreate convincingly, and since there is little call for them, I would consider it more a hobby than a talent. My darned socks are much more useful."

"And yet, in this instant, nothing else could have been more valuable."

"Not even a well-repaired stocking? Or a coat without holes?" she asked with a teasing smile. It was reminiscent of Miss Bennet's saucy grin, but it was softer, gentler, and somehow infinitely more appealing. "It is certain to be cold on your journey."

"Perhaps both are of particular use then. You seem to be a lady worth knowing, Mrs. Collins. By the way, how is your sister?"

Mrs. Collins smiled a little sadly. "Maria is still unable to rise from her bed. Mr. Locken believes that she hit her head on the cupboard when she fainted shortly after we left the kitchen to search for Lizzy. Even he and his wife did not notice her for some minutes. The doctor has been in, and he believes she will be all right, but it pains her quite fiercely."

"Poor girl. I hope she improves quickly. Last night was certainly difficult for all of us."

"Yes," she agreed. She smiled again for a moment before her expression was replaced with one of deep unhappiness. "As regarding my husband, you are welcome to ask him more questions, but I am not certain he will be up to the task for the rest of the afternoon. He was slightly… overtired after I finished questioning him myself this morning."

"Overtired?" Fitzwilliam frowned. "What do you mean?"

She smirked darkly. "He found answering me truthfully to be quite taxing. Making up so much self-justification is exhausting after all, as is spilling so many tears when one is trying to keep from answering direct questions, especially questions with only shameful answers."

Suddenly, Fitzwilliam was glad he had not been present for what must have been a rather unpleasant encounter, especially since he could quite easily imagine the sound of Mr. Collins' obsequious whining. "What did you learn from him?"

"It would seem that some six or seven months before our marriage, shortly after he was chosen to receive the living here, my husband accidentally learned of a gaming table in the back of the Coxton tavern, a place where cards were played much more seriously than at a country evening party and where other wagers were made as well, particularly on horse races. As a new, young clergyman, he disapproved of such entertainments for the local families, and he took it upon himself to descend upon the group one night and overwhelm them with a loud and fervent call to repentance."

Mrs. Collins sent Fitzwilliam a look that matched exactly with his opinion regarding that bit of foolishness. Then she continued, "Something occurred that night, something he refuses to explain, that convinced him that perhaps the goings-on there were more innocent than he had thought, and instead of calling down Heaven's wrath upon them, he placed a small wager himself, as a show of good faith. I suspect… well…" She frowned thoughtfully. "I suspect Lady Catherine had something to do with it. I am uncertain why, but that is my impression. There is no one else for whom he would keep secrets."

"In any event, he won his first bet, and his second, and his third. He quite enjoyed himself that night, and when he returned a few weeks later, he was introduced to a larger gaming group. On subsequent visits, he continued to win more than he lost. He began to believe himself quite an accomplished card player, not to mention a good judge of horseflesh, and it took several further weeks of losses in a row to make him question that conclusion. At first his debts were minor and easily discharged, but it would seem that a new player appeared at the table a few months ago, just after our marriage. He was welcomed with much excitement among the long-time players, almost an idol, so at first Mr. Collins did not mind losing to him, but when the losses continued through several of the man's visits and my husband realized that he was going to have to begin accounting to me for the loss of income, he began making increasingly dramatic wagers in hopes of winning back large amounts."

She sighed and sagged down onto a nearby chaise, covering her eyes. "He told me that as of four weeks ago, when the visitor, Lord Smythe, declared he was leaving the country soon and began seeking payment of debts owed, he was nearly five hundred pounds in."

"Five hundred pounds?" Fitzwilliam cried. Such a sum was a common amount of debt among the wealthiest young fops in the fashionable clubs, but not so ordinary for a clergyman whose living probably paid less than that in a year.

"He put off telling me, afraid to admit his weakness. He claimed that he intended to speak to me about it as soon as our guests left, that they might not sense any 'lack of harmony' in our relationship during their stay. Lack of harmony! Ha! He spent most of last night combing the house and grounds, carefully detailing anything discovered to be missing. Between the silver, all of my jewelry, including some very fine pieces from my mother, two very precious family heirlooms—a two-hundred-year-old clock and a jewel-handled letter opener—and both of our horses, the losses amount to somewhere around six hundred pounds." She sighed heavily again and leaned her head against the wall beside her, her eyes still closed. "Which really seems rather fair of them, all considering. They did no damage besides the lock on the silver cabinet, and they took nothing too heavy or slow to carry like the cow or the curricle. Really, it could have been far worse."

"I know you are not as calm as you seem," Fitzwilliam said, approaching quietly.

"Do I seem calm? What a marvel. Perhaps it is just that I am so angry, so confused, and so frightened for Lizzy that there is no room for any of the emotions to show on my face."

He knew he should not, offered himself eleven very sensible reasons why it would be a terrible idea, but he could not prevent himself from reaching out and grasping Mrs. Collins's shoulder gently. He still had no words of comfort, no promises of success, but he could not deny her the touch of a friend.

She stiffened under his hand for just a moment. Then she expelled a heavy breath and moved her head until her temple rested against his sleeve. They remained like that for a few moments, both staring ahead blindly, before Fitzwilliam shook himself and stepped away, moving to the door. "I must go. I assume you have not also managed to confront Lady Catherine and Ann about their knowledge of the letter, although all of my other assumptions about you have been wrong this morning."

She laughed a little and stood. "No, I have not. I am surprised to say so, however. I imagined Lady Catherine would charge over here to question us immediately after you returned to Rosings to collect a party of searchers, given her deep and abiding love for Mr. Darcy, but we have not heard a sound from Rosings all night."

"Yes, you are right. That would have been very like her. She seemed quite shocked when I told her what had happened, but I did not speak to her again before I left. I wonder…"

He paused, and Mrs. Collins put a questioning hand on his arm. "What?"

"I find myself wondering exactly how involved my dear aunt and cousin are in this disturbing episode. The letter that was left here implies at least a certain degree of knowledge regarding the abductors' intentions."

"Their behavior is a tad suspicious, only because their silence is so out-of-character. Would you mind terribly if I accompanied you to Rosings? I should like to hear what they have to say."

"Lady Catherine is quite closed-mouthed when discussing family troubles in front of outsiders," he said doubtfully.

"But I am as involved in this as you are—Lizzy is closer to me than even Maria. And I am not in the mood to accept any of Lady Catherine's condescension as her due this day, particularly as my husband is still abed and will not be present to 'remind me of my place.' As Lizzy is not here, I have a duty to play her role today, I think."

Fitzwilliam knew he should recommend that she remain at the parsonage, but he could not resist the chance to see a bit of the fire building in her eyes flashing at Lady Catherine. And besides, if he was allowed to offer her no other comforts, he could at least provide her more company than her indisposed husband and sister.

He could not keep the grin off his face as he replied. "Very well."


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Vacation is almost over, and I am looking forward to a return to routine, which should include a more predictable posting schedule. Thanks for all the reviews, follows, and favorites, as well as the thoughtful criticism. It's much appreciated. Happy New Year!_

 _I am not Jane Austen, but I do look forward to a long chat with her somewhere in the afterlife._

 _Chapter Three_

"Miss Bennet? Miss Bennet?"

Lizzy kept her eyes closed, but she was unable to prevent a low moan from escaping through her lips. She was entirely exhausted and had thought she would doze instantly upon descending from the horse—there was so much soreness and discomfort that true rest was probably impossible—but she had been awake for several minutes now, simply hoping that if she could pretend, she could keep the torture from continuing for a few precious moments.

"Miss Bennet, you must eat and drink something before we set off again."

"Not hungry," she murmured. "No more horses."

Mr. Darcy sounded sympathetic. "I can imagine how uncomfortable you are. These men should have taken you at your word when you claimed to be no horsewoman. But truly, walking for these last moments before the rest break ends will ease your stiffness more than pretending to sleep."

She cracked one eye open to glare at him. "Nothing will help. I will die in perfect misery."

He knelt before her makeshift bed, a pile of leaves in a small clearing some way off the road, with some bread and cheese in one hand and a battered tin cup in the other. Over his shoulder, she could see the group of kidnappers gathered near where the horses were drinking from a small stream, consulting in low voices. She knew the morning travel had been slower than they had hoped. They were rethinking their decision to have her ride now that they had seen how poor she was in the saddle.

One man in particular, Reg of the square jaw, appeared quite agitated, gesturing wildly. That Man was listening to him respectfully but seemed relatively unmoved by his companion's obvious frustration. The fellow she had nicknamed Scissors, for his poor haircut, leaned against a tree near her, his bored gaze tracing back and forth between her and Mr. Darcy, but the other men all watched the interaction between That Man and Reg with wide eyes and ongoing silence. Lizzy wondered whether they ever spoke at all. She returned her attention to Mr. Darcy again.

"That would indeed be a shame," he said, one corner of his mouth raised in a half-smile. "But until you have 'shuffled off this mortal coil,' I suggest you take my advice. It comes of experience."

She closed her eyes tightly and turned her back to him.

Suddenly there were hands underneath her arms, and she was lifted quickly upright until she stood on her feet. She balanced for a moment, her eyes popping open, before she was able to spin and glare at him again. She wobbled a little as she turned, and his hands reached out to steady her, grasping her shoulders gently.

"I hate you," she said coolly. "I hate these horses for being so very hard and bouncy, I hate these men for being cruel and selfish and unfeeling, and I hate you for _knowing everything_. There is nothing more insufferable than a man who knows he is right."

"Hate me all you want," he answered gravely, his eyes dark. "The feeling cannot be new to you. In the end, I must care for you the best I can, whether you are willing or not."

She instantly wished she could swallow her previous words and sentiment. She had not expected him to accept her insults so willingly. She had been venting her spleen, not even slightly meaning it. However, before she could speak, he was shoving the food and drink into her hands and turning his back on her, moving closer to the horses.

She watched him go, angry at herself. She should not have spoken so thoughtlessly, but she also should not feel so badly about it. Yes, this was a unique circumstance, and yes, any remaining ill will toward him had been diluted by fatigue, but she had her principles, did she not? She was still cross with him for his high-handed dealings with Mr. Bingley, whether or not his intentions had been pure, and he had so far made no attempt to explain his conduct toward poor Mr. Wickham. And as he had just proven, he still acted as if he were master of the whole world. She owed him some gratitude, obviously, but she had every right to continue hating him.

She flopped gracelessly back onto her pile of leaves, sloshing a few drops of the liquid in the tankard onto the dirt beside her. The only problem was that she no longer hated him at all, whether she should or not. In fact, he had been quite brave and admirably unselfish the previous night, and this morning he had been… well, _charming_ , or something like it, once he had stopped being insufferable. He had at least been kind and attentive. Had she only seen this version of him before his frightful proposal, she might have been more tempted by it.

She blushed at the thought and deliberately bent over her meager meal. Perhaps she should stop considering the issue at all, since clearly her mind was muddled by the entire situation.

"Well, well, Miss Bennet."

Lizzy tensed at the voice, but she did her best to appear unaffected. She suddenly felt the awkwardness of her attire. How on earth was a lady supposed to appear ladylike if she had to worry about what her lower half was doing as well as her upper? Oh, how she missed her skirts! She looked over as That Man sat down easily next to her, leaning back against the trunk behind her.

"It would seem that you were truthful in your claimed lack of horsemanship. Either that or you are a very accomplished actress."

Lizzy looked up, hoping her glance around the camp seemed bored. Talking to That Man always put her on edge, but it was somehow far more uncomfortable this time, and it required only a moment to realize that the difference was the lack of Mr. Darcy's fortifying presence.

Where had he gone? He would not have left her here and escaped into the woods alone—she may have angered and embarrassed him, but she trusted him too much to believe he would willingly abandon her. She finally located him leaning against a tree near his mount, his back to her. She willed him to turn and notice her, but he stared resolutely toward the road. She would have to face That Man on her own.

"I meant every word, sir," she said with a dramatic sigh. "It will take me weeks to recover from this single morning's ride."

"I hope for your sake that you exaggerate. But we may also face some consequence of your slowness. This operation is… delicate, and our timing is crucial. We have already been hindered by your unexpected-though-not-unwelcome presence and that of your paramour, and we cannot afford to lose more time."

"I would apologize for the delay, sir, but as I am not in the least sorry to cause you difficulties, that would be a pointless deception."

That Man laughed good-naturedly, and Lizzy was again struck by the handsomeness of his features. After the morning's long ride, he was more than a little dusty and untidy, but that seemed to have little effect on his aspect… or his confidence. His smile was wide and unconcerned despite his words, and as he prepared to speak again, his face lit with mischief. Lizzy had a feeling she would not like what was coming next.

"I appreciate your candor, my dear one. It is always good to know one's standing in a lady's eyes, even a lady who does not quite look herself." He stared rather openly at her awkwardly folded legs, and it took all her courage not to squirm and bend over to hide them. Instead she glared back at him defiantly. He continued, "In return, I, too, shall be candid. You ride too slowly, and we require speed. Therefore we have two options. The first is for you to ride with me, my inexperienced, much younger brother."

"Never!" The word came out sharply, and she colored as she spoke it, but she did not take it back.

That Man just chuckled. "The second is for you to ride with your _beloved_."

Lizzy was surprised at the offer, and she narrowed her eyes at him. "You would allow that?"

"I would naturally prefer that you choose me, given the pleasure of having you pressed against me for several hours, but I feel certain that keeping the two of you together will keep your rather volatile lover more docile, and that, for now, is worth more than my personal gratification. He can be quite troublesome when the two of you are separated."

Lizzy had not noticed it before, but during his speech, That Man had reached up unconsciously and fingered what she could now see was a dark bruise on the right-hand side of his jaw. He must have given Mr. Darcy that bloody lip, but apparently Mr. Darcy had paid the debt in kind. For some reason Lizzy chose not to analyze, that thought made her swell with pride.

"Again, I am unable to apologize."

That Man gave her an amused look and leaned nearer, so near that she felt his breath blowing the stray hairs on the side of her face. "Do not worry, my dear Miss Bennet. I will win you over yet. It will not be long before you forget all about your tedious beau and beg for my favors."

Lizzy was unable to stop herself from leaning a little away, too uncomfortable to remain so near him. "Well, that day is not today, sir. I choose to ride with Mr. Darcy."

That Man stood, his eyes still on her though she could not meet them. "Very well, for today. Now prepare yourself. We will set off again in a few minutes."

"Sir?" she called after him, using every last drop of her courage. Lizzy noticed Mr. Darcy turn at the sound of her voice, and he immediately began striding toward them, obviously alarmed. Knowing he was approaching soothed her agitation.

That man turned back with a flourish. "Madam?"

"What is your name?"

He looked at her thoughtfully before finally allowing a half-smile to appear. "I apologize for not introducing myself sooner, my dear Miss Bennet. You may call me Geoffrey."

"I would prefer a more formal name, sir." Mr. Darcy arrived at her side, standing just behind her shoulder with his arms folded.

That Man was unintimidated. "But Geoffrey is the name I would prefer to be called, by you at least. Now, prepare yourselves to journey onward. Excuse me."

Lizzy sat for a few moments after he left, gathering herself after that strange conversation, then brushed aside the fear That Man (she would _not_ call him Geoffrey) always inspired and finally stood stiffly, bending and moving to try and ease some of the worst soreness. Mr. Darcy did not offer her assistance, she noticed with some regret, but he remained near her.

It galled her to admit it, but Mr. Darcy had been right. She felt better in motion than she did on the ground. It made her dread the return to the saddle even more.

Too soon, Scissors was ushering them toward the horses. She shoved the last of the bread into her mouth and washed it down with the water in the cup before it was tugged from her hand. Mr. Darcy approached her mount to help her into the saddle, and Lizzy looked questioningly, hopefully, at That Man.

"Mount up, Mr. Darcy," That Man said, motioning toward Mr. Darcy's horse. "I will lift Miss Bennet up behind you."

Something flashed across Mr. Darcy's face, a very strong reaction though it was gone too fast for Lizzy to interpret, before he nodded, crossed to his mount, and swung up into the saddle. He lowered a hand down to her, and she grasped it just as That Man gripped her waist and raised her high. She was installed behind Mr. Darcy after only a moment, grateful for the first time to be wearing breeches.

"Now, I know it will be difficult," That Man said dryly, "but do your best not to wrap yourself too tightly against him, Miss Bennet. Do not forget that you are a hapless younger brother, not a lover."

Lizzy bit her tongue to keep from saying any one of the hundred things she wanted to say to That Man, including where he could take _himself_ , and nodded once. She understood his meaning, of course, but what else was she to do? Short of tying herself over the horse's flanks like a pack, the only way to keep herself perched so precariously on the rolled back of the saddle was to grip tightly around Mr. Darcy's waist, an action that would already require perhaps more courage than she possessed. At least Mr. Darcy's height did not correlate to his width, or she really would be riding directly on the horse's back.

They sat silently as the other five riders attempted to remove all traces of their presence then mounted up. When all were ready, That Man led out, directing as before that Mr. Darcy should keep his horse in the middle of the grouping, neither in the lead nor at the back.

"Hold on," Mr. Darcy advised quietly.

The horse began walking forward, and Lizzy was forced to lean into him, placing her arms around his waist. She touched as little of him as possible, keeping her head strained back and her eyes on the road she could see just over his shoulder, but she could still feel his warmth seeping through his greatcoat.

They rode some distance in silence. Lizzy tried to distract herself from his nearness by listening to the sounds around her, springtime birds calling from the trees, the rustling of leaves in the slight breeze, the burbling of brooks, and the clopping of hooves on dirt and grass and stone. She silently named the variety of each tree they passed for some miles before that no longer kept her attention from the hardness of the muscle against her chest. Because the sun was well-hidden behind steel-gray, high clouds, she used the moss on the trunks of the larger trees to analyze their direction—approximately north-northeast—to prevent herself from noticing the newly burning areas on her legs and the increasing ache in her back and shoulders.

Eventually her comfort had eroded so much that as they crossed a rougher patch of road, obviously washed out in a previous storm, the horse took a jarring step to the side and she was forced to release a quiet moan.

"Miss Bennet," Mr. Darcy said in hushed voice over his shoulder, "you must relax. It is no wonder that you suffer so much discomfort if you always ride as stiffly as you are doing now."

"And of course _you_ know how to advise me to fix it!" she snapped, tempted to pinch his side with her fingernails. She was miserable enough without him nagging at her.

"Yes, I know!" he whispered harshly. "I have been riding horseback for over twenty years! I watched many friends learn to ride as well, and I taught my sister myself some time ago. Is it wrong that I should offer knowledge that will aid you?"

"Yes!" Lizzy hissed back. She started to speak again, to say something like, _Keep your knowledge to yourself!,_ before she was jarred again by another descending step. She gritted her teeth and kept the latest moan deep in her chest. The pain in her back was enough to give her pause, to provide a moment of space before answering, and the ridiculousness of her response rushed upon her in a single breath. What was the matter with her? She was being perfectly unreasonable!

"That is, no," she corrected, trying to sound calmer. "It is acceptable for anyone to offer knowledge for the sake of someone else's good."

"Then why are you so angry at me when I do?" He, too, sounded more controlled, but his question was deeply sincere.

"It is your manner, sir, that is offensive," she bristled, annoyed at his sincerity. "You are so very condescending, so supercilious. You offer your knowledge as if it is a gift presented in great disdain from an emperor to a peasant."

He did not answer for some moments, keeping his eyes forward. Finally he said quietly, "That is not my intention, nor a true reflection of my feelings. I only offer advice to those I believe are deserving, those who are worth improving. It is a mark of my respect and affection."

"Worth improving?" she spluttered. "So it was respect that made you advise Mr. Bingley to abandon my sister?"

He pursed his lips and nodded. "I never would have given advice of any kind to a friend I cared for less, whether or not in the end the advice proved correct."

"Is there anyone you would not dare advise? An uncle or mentor whom you hold in high regard?" Surely there was someone he would respect enough to leave to his own devices, and that would prove his assertion invalid.

"No," he answered easily. "Those I respect the most are those to whom I give advice freely and from whom I expect to receive advice in return."

"Truly?" She was openly surprised.

"Of course. Is that not the essence of equality and respect?"

Lizzy hesitated, unable to answer. Was that the meaning of respect? She would have said that true respect was to let another make his own decisions without interference, to trust in his ability to solve his own problems, but perhaps she would feel differently if she had a wider range of experience in the world, if she herself were more likely to know things others did not.

"I… that is, I do not…"

The sound of the horse's hooves beating the ground seemed impossibly loud in her ears.

"Perhaps," she finally said, very slowly, "I sense disrespect in your manner because I expect it, not because it is present."

He waited, not responding.

"And perhaps that is because I lack confidence in my own knowledge and experience, and therefore, I expect others with more of either than I possess to look down upon me. I expect you to belittle me because I… because I feel deserving of it."

A great cavity of understanding had opened inside her, one that sucked her down into what felt like an abyss of self-awareness. She was both falling and standing on a precipice, watching herself with disgust as she sank into the void. Words came out of her mouth, attempts to grapple with what she suddenly knew.

"I feel that I deserve censure yet resent it at the same time. I am angry when I receive advice from you because I know I need it and hate myself for the needing. I believe it all roots back to the beginning of our acquaintance! Regardless of what you may have come to feel for me after, you made it quite clear on the night of the Meryton Assembly that you not only disapproved of my neighborhood and family but particularly of myself. I hated you in that moment, not for being wrong but because inside I knew you were an experienced, intelligent gentleman who was likely to be right!

"I _am_ only tolerable when compared with Jane or any of London's great beauties, and I despise knowing that. Oh, Mr. Darcy! I feel as if the window through which I have always viewed my world has suddenly been shattered! Until this moment, I never knew myself!"

"Miss Bennet!" Mr. Darcy said sharply, turning slightly in his seat in order to catch Lizzy's eye for just a moment before looking back at the terrain ahead. "The beginning of your statement I understand, although I quibble with the idea that your need for advice speaks of any unworthiness—we are all unworthy when compared with all we ought to be, and the entire task of our lives, in my opinion, is to struggle forward against the natural tendencies that hold us back from improvement. But what is your reference to my disapproval of yourself upon our first acquaintance? I do not remember even truly noticing you until near the end of the evening, and we never spoke. I would recall that, I am certain."

Lizzy half-laughed, still somewhat distracted by her own racing thoughts. "You were speaking to Mr. Bingley, who had withdrawn from the dancing long enough to approach and encourage you to dance. You refused on the basis that he was dancing with my sister, the only pretty girl in the room. He argued and pointed me out specifically as proof against your assertion.

"Your exact words regarding myself that evening were burned into my mind by my own vanity: 'She is tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me.' Why should I have cared for your opinion? You were a disdainful boor. And yet I admit it has haunted me, and only now do I realize that it was because it was a truth I had no wish to hear! I rather liked being thought of as pretty, even if I was not lovely like Jane."

"Miss Bennet, I…" He cursed loudly enough that he drew the attention of the riders nearby. Reg gave them a dark look from his seat nearest their right side. Mr. Darcy lowered his voice, but Lizzy could feel his continued high emotion through the tension of his back and arms. "I do not remember speaking such words, but I do remember that conversation. I simply did not wish to dance! I was prepared to say whatever was necessary to convince Bingley to leave me alone. I had no friends in the neighborhood and so said the most offensive thing of which I could conceive in order to drive him off. I had no idea of your overhearing it."

"You looked right at me as you spoke."

"Did I? I am certain you are right, but I cannot have truly seen you, for it was not too long after that conversation that my attention was drawn to the far side of the ballroom, caught by an open, carefree laugh accompanied by a pair of sparkling eyes, the finest I had ever seen. You were talking with Mrs. Collins, Miss Lucas at the time, both of you laughing in delight. Your dress was blue."

Lizzy stared at his profile, dumbfounded. "We were laughing at you. I told Charlotte what you said of me, probably to prove to myself unaffected. It was so horrifying that it was humorous."

"The irony is poignant, is it not?" he asked grimly, his jaw clenched tightly. "The beginning of your disgust for me was in turn the genesis of my admiration for you. I assume you would agree that such an inauspicious beginning made my multitude of other offenses against you that much more unpalatable."

Lizzy leaned her forehead against his back, closing her eyes in sudden exhaustion. "I told myself that my judgment of you was impartial, but I am suddenly finding all my assumptions regarding my motives and conclusions to be suspect. I believe you are correct, sir."

They rode in heavy quiet, both obviously dragged down by their words and realizations. It was not until a mile or two had passed that he finally asked quietly, "Do you find that you are less uncomfortable now?"

Lizzy pulled back from where she had been resting against him without realizing it. "Yes," she said in surprise. "I am still sore, but it is no longer so sharp."

"I believe you were distracted enough to relax into the horse's rhythm instead of fighting it."

He was right, but it was more the acceptance of her proximity to him that had relaxed her than the beat of the horse's movements.

"Your advice was sound."

He gave a derisive laugh. "If only my manner did not make it difficult to heed."

"If only I was humble enough to accept correction instead of resenting it."

"You are not pretty."

Lizzy stiffened sharply and found that her new resolve to accept criticism was not as firm as she might have hoped. A poor segue was one thing, but an outright insult was another. "I… you are…"

"At first glance," he went on, his eyes steady on the road ahead, "you are no more noticeable than any other young lady. Your hair is a common color; your figure is acceptable but not remarkable."

At least she was not hideously deformed, she thought in irritation. He would obviously have no qualms about telling her so.

"But there is something both beneath all that and above it, something in your being that invites the eyes back to look again. It is then, in the second glance, that one notices intelligent, emotive, dark eyes and a ready, teasing smile. It is then that one is captured by the vibrancy of your person, by the spring in your step and the toss of your head. It is then that a man finds himself enthralled, inexplicably drawn forward to notice the details, the blush in your cheeks when you triumph in a debate and the curve of your neck when you turn to look archly over your shoulder.

"And suddenly, before he is even aware of it, you are the most beautiful creature he has ever beheld, the handsomest of women, because while others are pretty or graceful or elegant, you are _alive_ , and you kindle in him an answering life that he never knew was missing until you demonstrated its absence. And now, no other can keep his attention. No other can wake him. No other can tempt or interest or intrigue. He is lost."

He drew in a slow breath. "You are not pretty, Miss Bennet. Nor will you ever be."

Lizzy could not have been more at sea had he abandoned her in a dinghy in the middle of the Channel. She had no response, nor could she foresee a time in any distant future when she would be able to formulate one. Instead she sat silently, playing his words over and over again in her head as first a mile and then several miles passed, memorizing their sound and the way she felt as he said them.

And the farther they rode, the more she relaxed against him, resting her cheek on his shoulder and forgetting about her pains and fears, trusting him to keep her safe.

* * *

"Where is Lady Catherine, Evans?" Fitzwilliam asked the butler as he and Mrs. Collins passed through the oversized outer door. "Dining yet?"

"No, Colonel," Evans replied, taking his hat as well as Mrs. Collins' outerwear. "Luncheon is at one o'clock as usual."

Fitzwilliam glanced at yet another gold-filigreed clock on a side table. "Oh. It felt later than noon. Then where is she, man?"

"She is not receiving visitors today, sir. Lady Catherine is indisposed."

"Well, where is Ann then?"

"Miss Ann is resting all day today."

Fitzwilliam stared at the man in frustration. He would go storming room by room if he had to, but he would prefer to save his dwindling energies. He opened his mouth to berate Evans for his foolish loyalties.

"Evans, how is your dear wife?" Mrs. Collins asked quietly, stepping forward with a quelling glance toward Fitzwilliam. "Mr. Collins and I pray for her nightly."

Evans, who had been stern and unyielding since Fitzwilliam was a boy, suddenly lost all trace of imperiousness and smiled down at Mrs. Collins from his rather impressive height. "She is feeling much better, madam, thank you. The doctor says the bone is finally beginning to heal. We had been trying My Lady's recommendations for so long, but I am glad we followed your advice and consulted Dr. Wagoner, even if it was against My Lady's wishes."

"I am delighted to hear it." And she genuinely looked delighted, Fitzwilliam realized. She was not just being kind. She _was_ kind. "Mr. Evans, I know you take your duties to Lady Catherine very seriously, but do you remember my friend, Miss Bennet?"

"Yes," he said. "A lovely young lady."

"Well, you see, she is in some distress right now, and Lady Catherine may be the only person who can help her. It is difficult to explain, but it is extremely important. Please allow us to talk to her, even against her wishes."

Evans stared at Mrs. Collins for several seconds, looking troubled. Fitzwilliam held his breath.

"Very well, madam," he said, leaning forward and speaking very quietly. "But please do not tell her I directed you."

"Of course not," she assured him.

"She and Miss Ann have been closeted all morning in Mrs. Jenkinson's rooms. They have not even rung for tea."

"I am eternally grateful to you, Evans."

She had seemed about to say more, but Fitzwilliam had taken her arm and dragged her down the west corridor toward the companion's sitting room. He could feel his wakefulness draining away, and he knew he would need all his reserves to deal with his dragon of an aunt.

It was a matter of moments to reach the mostly-empty wing where Ann's companion had a modest suite. They approached the room hurriedly, but as they neared, their steps slowed. There were voices raised behind the door.

Well, really only one raised voice.

"Ann, I think you are not understanding the gravity of the situation. You can pretend this has nothing to do with you, but you ought to know by now that I am not a woman to be trifled with or gainsaid, and when I see a thing in a certain way, then it is certain to be as I see it! It would be one thing if it were just that upstart girl, but Darcy, your own betrothed, has been spirited away, and…"

There was a low murmuring, and Lady Catherine's voice cut off. The voices continued after that, but they were too hushed to understand.

Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Collins shared a significant glance before Fitzwilliam shoved open the door and barreled into the sitting room.

"Good gracious!" Lady Catherine cried. She was seated in a high-backed chaise near the fireplace, where a low fire sat sputtering and ignored. Her clothing was as regal as always, but she seemed slightly awry, a steel-gray hair hanging down across her brow and a section of ruffling along her neckline folded up instead of down. "What do you mean, Fitzwilliam, by barging in here in such a manner? I informed Evans that I was indisposed for visitors, even houseguests."

"You meant me, did you not? You did not want to see me? Well, unfortunately for both of us, dear aunt, I must demand a few moments of your precious time to see to the small matter of the disappearance of Darcy and Miss Bennet, whether you are indisposed or not."

"I am not of a humor to discuss these unfortunate tidings, particularly not in the hearing of those whom this does not in the least concern," Lady Catherine replied, raising her nose ever higher in the air, as if glaring down from on high at poor Mrs. Collins.

"But this does concern me, Lady Catherine," Mrs. Collins replied, not even slightly impressed by Lady Catherine's dismissal. "My dearest friend has been kidnapped from my home, along with your nephew, and as you have given orders that no one should know yet of her abduction, it is left up to me to do all I can to aid the good colonel in finding her."

"Finding her!" Lady Catherine barked unpleasantly. "You have no hope whatsoever of finding her. I was correct, was I not, Fitzwilliam? The miscreants were obviously quite clever enough to whisk away a grown man and woman with little difficulty, which means they would also be quite clever enough to hide their tracks. I told you that we must simply wait to receive a notice of ransom, as the letter suggests. Darcy will be returned to us as soon as the demands are met."

"And Lizzy?" Mrs. Collins asked.

Lady Catherine put on an obviously false expression of sympathy. "Oh, my dear Mrs. Collins. You are hopelessly naïve if you believe that there is any chance armed ruffians and thieves have the slightest intention of ever returning Miss Bennet to good society. They will have separated her from Darcy as soon as possible, being as her family could pay no ransom worth gaining, and she will probably already be on her way to a brothel in London or Dublin. Not that such a thing could not have been predicted—such an impudent, opinionated girl, of no good family or upbringing. She would have ended there anyway. Why, all five of her sisters out at once!"

"Lady Catherine!" Fitzwilliam burst out, his fists clenched at his sides. "How dare you speak so of a…"

"You are spending much energy," Mrs. Collins interrupted, eerily calm and unaffected by what the harridan had said, "maligning Lizzy's character. Are you doing it in order to make yourself feel less guilty regarding your part in this affair, or do you honestly think you can anger us enough that we would leave without the answers we seek from you?"

Fitzwilliam realized with some chagrin that it would have worked perfectly well on him. Another few speeches such as that would have had him storming out of the room with his hands thrown in the air, giving up altogether on breeching his aunt's defenses.

Lady Catherine stared at Mrs. Collins in surprise for a few seconds before she could manage to reassemble her offended pride. "You are no one! How dare you challenge me? The wife of a clergyman against the daughter of an earl! I have obviously made a mistake in showing you any kindness at all."

"Lady Catherine," Mrs. Collins sighed, shaking her finger as she would at a misbehaving child, "tell us at once of your connection to the gambling man in Coxton."

"What? How do you…?" Lady Catherine turned bright red as she gritted her teeth. "I have no idea of whom you are speaking."

"You owe him money, too, then? So it was _your_ penchant for wagering on race horses that convinced my husband it was an innocuous pastime?"

"I beg your pardon, I am not… I do not…" She looked wildly around the room, less controlled than Fitzwilliam had ever seen her before. Her eyes fell on Ann, who was sitting on the chaise across from her mother, wrapped so heavily in furs she might have been drowning. She was as pale as ever, with thick, dark circles above her cheeks, but her eyes were bright as they met her mother's gaze.

"Mother," Ann said quietly.

Was she _chiding_ Lady Catherine?

Lady Catherine's eyes bulged as she stared back at her daughter, her cheeks swollen with fury. She did not speak, possibly could not speak, for above two full minutes. Fitzwilliam wanted to break in, to demand an explanation, but he took his cue from Mrs. Collins, who stood calmly, watching the silent interchange between the two ladies as if they were discussing the latest fashions over tea.

Finally, grinding the words out as if her teeth were millstones, Lady Catherine said, "Very well. I admit that… that I owe Lord… Lord Smythe some small amount of money. I sometimes allow Mr. Collins to place… wagers for me on the… fastest horses… at the races." She rushed on then. "But it is a very small amount, a pittance, and he did not inform me clearly that the money was due to him soon. I considered it a small matter."

"Mother," Ann said, chiding again and looking slightly disappointed, as if she were the mother instead of the child, "ninety-thousand pounds is no small matter."

"Ann!" Lady Catherine cried, jumping to her feet and towering over her daughter. "How could you…"

"I am sorry for embarrassing you, Mother, but it is important for the good colonel and Mrs. Collins to know the truth if they are to help find dear Cousin William." She turned to them, closing her eyes as if the slight effort exhausted her. Perhaps it had—even Fitzwilliam had never heard Ann say so many words at one time. She must be truly concerned for Darcy's well-being. He wondered what she would think if she knew he had probably been wooing Miss Bennet when he was abducted.

"And no matter what Mother says," she added a little breathlessly, looking sincerely toward Mrs. Collins, "I hope Miss Bennet will be all right. She is a sweet young lady and does not deserve this trouble."

Fitzwilliam offered Ann his most beaming smile. All this time he had thought she was merely indolent and ill-tempered, but perhaps she truly was just a sweet girl who was too ill to participate in life as she might. And who apparently had opinions of her own! He was so pleased that he crossed the room and took her hand, kissing it heartily. She smiled at him wanly and lay back against the chair, closing her eyes. "Mrs. Jenkinson, would you bring me my tincture? I feel a bit faint."

As the frowsy, middle-aged Mrs. Jenkinson bustled toward Ann with a decanter full of a brownish liquid and a small glass, Fitzwilliam simply rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to his aunt, who was still staring daggers at her daughter. Ann had been under treatment from a Doctor Spencer, a physician from London, for several years, and although his strange methods and cures had never brought about much improvement, he was even more obsequious and fawning than Mr. Collins, and Lady Catherine had taken a liking to him that had not yet ebbed.

"Now, Lady Catherine," Fitzwilliam said, aiming all his attention and ferocity toward his aunt, "we need to know everything you can tell us about Lord Smythe."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: It's looking like I'll be posting on Tuesdays and Saturdays, as nearly as I can manage. Also, please be forgiving when it comes to dialect issues-I made a few attempts in certain conversations, but generally, I only marked the speech of the less-educated by allowing them to use contractions. If I ever return to this story with more serious intentions, I promise to make a greater effort for accurate accents in dialogue._

 _I am not Jane Austen, but I would love to pick her brain about a few things._

 _Chapter Four_

It was just before sunset that Lizzy, Mr. Darcy, and Smythe's men finally rode into a small village. Lizzy had sensed all day that they traveled near the sea, but here she could finally smell the faint tang of fish and brine in the cold breeze. She was stiff and exhausted, the few more breaks they had taken for meals through the day having done little to restore her, and she practically fell into Mr. Darcy's arms as he dismounted and turned to help her down. He supported her almost completely for a moment while she found her footing, and she glanced up at him as she hung there in his arms, blushing deeply as their eyes met for the first time in many hours.

"Straighten up, Miss Bennet," That Man hissed, coming up behind her and cuffing her on the shoulder. "You must be a young man for a few more minutes."

"Do not touch her," Mr. Darcy growled, his grip on her tightening.

"You would do well not to forget your position here, _sir_ ," That Man replied, his tone full of threat. "I do not like to be cruel, but I will do what I must to elicit compliance."

Lizzy forced herself to stand upright, pulling back and straightening her spine as she adjusted her hat and pulled at the travel-stained greatcoat she wore. "Lead on, sir," she said, drawing That Man's attention away from his staring match with Mr. Darcy. "I am capable."

"Good," he said, giving a gruffly approving nod. He held his hand out, motioning for them to precede him into the small tavern.

Inside they found an unremarkable taproom, not too full but not too empty. Lizzy wondered, if she were to cry out their situation, whether any of the rough working men at the stained wooden tables would aid them. Probably not. And if they did, then word would get out regarding her abduction, and she would be ruined. A lone, single woman in a company of unrelated men and wearing men's garments! Her face burned at the mere thought.

That Man spoke cheerfully to the proprietor, securing rooms for the night for himself and his party of friends on their way to visit yet another friend a little farther up the coast, according to him. Cleft Chin directed Lizzy and Mr. Darcy to join the other men at a table in a quiet corner, as far away from the other customers as possible. Hot meals were soon set before them, and Lizzy did not even pause to taste the food before bolting it down, as much to combat the cold in her limbs as the emptiness in her middle.

Not many minutes passed before Lizzy could barely hold her head up, finding herself leaning heavily against the wall.

"Go on up to bed, friends," That Man chuckled cheerfully. He glanced at Cleft Chin and Reg. "Help Mr. Foster get his brother to their room. Last one on the right. The lad is obviously done in."

The three men stood, and Mr. Darcy helped Lizzy to her feet. She wanted to hang on his arm, but she remembered That Man's order, and she moved forward on her own, only stumbling once on the uneven floorboards. They stopped at the privy, then moved the rest of the way down a dark corridor, listening to Cleft Chin muttering about why it was always him who got stuck with the prisoners.

"That is the role of the novice," Reg said with little sympathy. "Every one of the others has already played it, and now it is your turn to prove your competence."

Lizzy perked up a bit at the sound of their voices. The men had been so silent all day, at least within her hearing, that she had begun to wonder whether That Man had ordered their tongues removed upon entering his service.

"But if the master is really quitting, then it's not as if I'll ever do more anyway. Can't someone else take a night?"

"You have nothing to concern yourself with on that score, if you can prove yourself useful. Now be silent!" Reg demanded, clouting Cleft Chin hard on the back of the head. Lizzy was uncertain whether it was the content of his words or the act of speaking that most offended Reg. That Man was quitting soon? Quitting what? She wished she knew more of what was happening!

As soon as they entered the assigned room, Lizzy noticed that it had been chosen especially for them. There was only one small window, so high and thin that even she could never escape it. There was also no fire in the grate again, probably because they feared the flames could be used to make trouble. There were two beds, at least, and each had a thick blanket.

"Is there no more fitting accommodation?" Mr. Darcy asked as they entered. "A suite perhaps, that Miss Bennet might have some privacy?"

"As I believe Lord Geoffrey made clear to you last night," Reg replied, eyeing the cut on Mr. Darcy's lip meaningfully, "the only reason the young miss is sharing a room with you and not one of the rest of us is because he does not want to get your feathers ruffled before he gets paid. I suggest you stop complaining and enjoy her company before he changes his mind."

Then he closed the door, and she heard the sound of a chair sliding in front of it.

At the sound of voices, she and Mr. Darcy both leaned against the door.

"But I sat watch last night. I'm too tired to stay up all night again."

"You must pay your dues. Windham will join you when we all retire, and you can both change out at two o'clock, as usual."

"Lord Geoff is punishin' me, ain't he?" Cleft Chin grumbled.

Reg's voice lowered in the same way Lizzy's father's always did when he was running out of patience. "No, but I will be if you cannot stop behaving like a child! I will not have whining lay-abouts on my crew. My operation will be a little different from Geoff's, but I will not tolerate grumbling any more than he does."

"Different how, Reg?"

"There will be time enough to discuss that after Geoff has gone. The greatest difference will be that, with me running things, our barely sufficient incomes will transform into indisputable wealth. That I can guarantee. But for now, you had best worry about impressing me enough that I will be willing to finish your training at all. Now, do your duty, man! And remember what to do if the innkeeper or his wife come asking what you are about."

"I know, I know. I could not sleep, and so I came into the hall where the candle would not bother anyone."

"Very good."

Boots moved down the corridor, and the chair in front of the door creaked. Lizzy could picture the disconsolate way Cleft Chin had dropped into his seat. She had a strange urge to giggle, imagining him as he must have looked as a chubby little boy when told to sit still in church.

"We must get out of this," Mr. Darcy whispered into the darkness.

Lizzy was brought back hard into reality, and all amusement left her, replaced by deep weariness. "We do not even know what _this_ is."

"It does not matter. We must escape. You realize where we are, do you not?"

"Somewhere on the southern coast, I had supposed. Probably east of Brighton."

"Yes, and unless I miss my guess, we will be veering north again tomorrow. The path has been wandering, possibly to throw any pursuers off our trail, but I believe we are going to Dover."

The trail had indeed been strange, now that Lizzy considered it. They had stopped outside several small towns through the day, much as they had at the one the previous night just before they had turned south, sending one man in who would return a few minutes later with a silent, satisfied nod.

"Dover?" Lizzy asked, the anxiety that had somewhat abated through the day returning in full force.

"Yes, and I overheard Reg instructing some of the men to go back out and purchase supplies, a stock that seems appropriate only for a sea journey. I believe they mean to take us to France."

"To France? How? And why?" Lizzy shook her head, thinking if she could just clear the cobwebs of fatigue, she would understand why his tone sounded so dire.

"Yes, do you understand? It will be much more difficult to escape, and much less likely that we will ever return home, if they take us into the heart of Napoleon's territory. We must get away before any vessel takes us from Dover tomorrow."

"Why leave the country, though? And is not France as dangerous for them as for us? Why take such a risk?"

"I do not understand their motives or their plan yet. I know nothing!" It was too dark to see more than his outline amongst the shadows, but she did not miss the violence of his fists swinging to slam against his thighs in frustration. "The idea of France is only a suspicion, an instinct, if I may say so. All I truly know is that the farther we are taken from Kent and those who might come to our aid, the less likely it shall be for all to resolve happily."

Lizzy wanted to argue, wanted to dispute her own matching worries aloud, but she knew it would do no good. Mr. Darcy was right, and they would have to work together in order to succeed in any attempted escape.

"Do you have an idea? Something we can do to get away? This window is too high and small to use tonight, and I get the feeling that Cleft Chin out there knows the dire consequences of shirking his duty as watchman. Even if we could get past him without raising an alarm, That Man may be wily enough to also post guards at the bottom of the stairs and in the yard."

"No, we cannot escape tonight." Mr. Darcy's voice was bleak. "And honestly, I have no method by which we might plan an escape on the morrow, given that we know not where or how we are to travel or for how long. If I were alone, I might attempt to fight my way free, but trying to free both of us in that manner would be an unconscionable risk."

"Perhaps Cleft Chin will be too tired to perform his duty well," Lizzy suggested, "and we will find a moment to run."

"We would be wisest to disappear at an hour when they will not discover we have left for some time," Mr. Darcy mused. "Otherwise, they may simply catch us again, and I have no doubt that the punishment for such an attempt would be severe. Tonight would be best, while they sleep, if we could get down the corridor without being noticed."

Lizzy moved toward the far bed and sat heavily, too tired and frightened to care about the proprieties being flouted once again by sharing a bedchamber with Mr. Darcy. She did not even blush as she scooted back on the mattress, braced her back in the wall corner, and wrapped the single blanket around herself. "Very well. Sometime after midnight, we should check to see whether our guards have fallen asleep. If they have not, we could consider attacking them."

"We cannot. It would be too likely to raise an alarm. If they are awake, we must find another way."

"So be it," Lizzy agreed, too tired to argue, although she thought he was being overly cautious. "Whichever of us awakens in the night must wake the other, and then we will check in the hall. For now, however, it would be wisest to get some sleep, sir. I am aching and exhausted, and I can only imagine that you are even more so, given your previous night spent half-sleeping in a chair. We will both be more alert and clear-headed if we rest."

Mr. Darcy was silent for a moment, and Lizzy was certain he was trying to think of a counter-argument, something that would prove it was necessary once again for him to remain awake and on guard. She exhaled a relieved breath when he said, "You are correct," and moved toward the opposite bed. "At this moment, I am too worn to be of much use to either of us."

She heard the sound of him sitting and then laying out on the mattress, the creaking of the bedframe an oddly intimate, discomfiting sound.

She lay down as well before she could be overwhelmed by the strangeness of it all. She tucked the blanket tightly around herself, as much as a defense against the night's peculiarity as against the distinct chill of the dark room, and turned on the mattress, attempting to find the least lumpy location. Finally, after a few minutes of restlessness, she felt herself moving toward sleep.

She missed Jane so dreadfully. Longing swept over her like a crashing wave. Her sister's warmth would be most welcome at this moment, but even more, she missed sharing sleepy laughter as they drifted off and bidding one another good night.

On impulse, she murmured, "Goodnight, Mr. Darcy."

"Goodnight, Miss Bennet," he replied gently. "Sleep well."

She smiled, a little comforted, and floated away.

* * *

Colonel Fitzwilliam had been in his fair share of taverns. He had seen the inside of what sometimes felt like every public house in every corner of the Empire, not to mention several on the Continent. He had also seen the bottom of far too many tankards in those numerous tap rooms, lost a few too many pounds at various card tables, and wagered what most of the King's subjects would call a shocking amount of blunt on various races and competitions. It was all a part of a soldier's life, the way to build friendships and make connections that could not only come in useful on the battlefield but in the far more cutthroat world of military promotion.

He had played the game well, and he knew that if he continued playing it for a few more years, he should be able to abandon his casual search for the perfect heiress to provide him the kind of life to which his upbringing as an Earl's second son had accustomed him. He had amassed a comfortable nest egg during over a decade of service, even including the moderate gambling required of him, and a few more years of dedication was likely to bear even riper fruit.

Yes, he thought, looking around the taproom of Coxton's tavern, the Blue Hound, he knew these places far too well. It was simple enough to scan the wide, low-ceilinged room, rather darker than one would prefer in one's home but perfect for a place to have a drink and a quiet conversation, and pick out the forgotten-looking door that would lead to a small back room where a large table could be found, along with dice, a deck of cards, several of the latest racing guides, today's racing papers, and anything else a gambler might need. He had been quietly watching for long enough that he could pick out which other characters from the main public room would eventually slither into the back, and he knew that it was the mistress of the establishment who ought to be approached for permission.

It was a matter of only a few moments of charm and a few coins to find himself escorted to the back and installed at the gaming table. Hazard was the game of choice tonight, but the stakes were far higher than one would find in a typical drawing room after supper. These amounts rivaled the gentlemen's clubs in London late at night when the drink flowed freely.

The clientele matched the stakes, he supposed. The people surrounding him were upper-class, though somewhat dissipated. The gentlemen were well-dressed but bleary-eyed, a collection of fathers and sons from the local gentry who lived too far from London or could not quite afford to abide there during the Season, but surprisingly, there were two or three ladies in the company as well. Their dresses were relatively fashionable, but more than that, they were quite daring, even provocative. Fitzwilliam made the mistake of evaluating one of the ladies a little too openly and was rewarded with a warm, inviting smile.

He cringed internally, but he had to play his part, so he winked and grinned before returning his attention to the game. So that was the sort of company this was!

What on Earth had drawn the scrupulously virtuous Lady Catherine to involve herself with this collection of characters?

The most fascinating realization, however, was that although the ladies were not seated at the table, they watched the game raptly, and the money clutched in their delicate fists changed hands relating to the outcome of others' dice rolls. They bet amongst themselves and with the gentlemen sitting at the table, and some were even placing bets on the results of others' bets or the exact numbers that would appear on the next roll.

This level of involvement was new even to Fitzwilliam, and it was no wonder that Mr. Collins had condemned it when he had first learned of it. It was one thing to enjoy the adventure of the game, even the fun of watching others risk and win or lose, but it was another to bet at the level of these players and observers. There was some conversation but no laughter in the room, no gaiety or amusement, only intensity.

Perhaps the feverish light in their eyes was the most disturbing part of all.

Fitzwilliam bought in when the current roller finished amidst murmurs of sympathy for his losses, making sure that he winced at the amount in a manner that matched the roughness of the coat and trousers he had borrowed with very little explanation from Mr. Nelson, who was of similar size to him though a bit rounder in the middle. He needed to play a particular role tonight, to be welcomed without seeming threatening or particularly memorable.

When his turn came, he sent the dice down the board with just the right amount of desperation, and his relief when the outcome went his way was heavy. He ordered another drink from a barmaid stationed near the entrance, offering her an outrageous tip when she brought it.

He calculated correctly. The players took note of him without seeming suspicious. He was just like them, living at the bottom of the upper class and only barely maintaining his position, thanks to his obsession with the tables. It was enough to loosen the tongues of the other characters seated around him.

"From where do you hail, Mr. Barker?" asked the man across the table. Fitzwilliam had introduced himself upon first being seated. "And how long do you stay here in our fair town?"

The man was young, probably even younger than Darcy, and he wore a moderately well-tailored coat and wore his hair fashionably short. He had thrown his money around during the first round, barely seeming to note its loss or gain, and he kept eyeing the racing lists on the far table. He was probably the son of one of the local small land owners, rather like Miss Bennet's brother would have been, had she had one, and clearly more interested in the equine wagers that would probably be taken and counted later than he was in the gaming.

"I come from up north," Fitzwilliam answered carelessly, keeping his eyes locked on the dice along with everyone else's. "Derbyshire originally, but I am on my way through, trying to catch up with an old friend."

"A poor time to be traveling," said an older gentleman on Fitzwilliam's other side. "I do not envy you the cold ride."

"Aye, it has been unpleasant, but I am staying on for the night here, and it looks to be a decent enough establishment. And there is nothing to warm a man's bones like a little excitement." He gestured to the dice, and those listening nodded appreciatively.

No one else commented on his story, and the game continued for several minutes. Fitzwilliam chose not to press. He went cheerfully along, and played up his relief when he again happened to nick. He threw out on the second cast, losing all he had gained in the first, and he donned what he hoped was a concerned expression. He went up and down over the next several rolls, the dice doing most of the work of creating a nice bit of drama for the audience. As he finally threw out his third cast in a row, he slumped down in his chair and rubbed his face with his hands, looking desolate.

"We are willing to extend credit," said a quiet voice from the far end of the table, "at least to the most deserving players."

Fitzwilliam looked toward the far end into the eyes of a man he had not even noticed before, a grave sin considering his usually canny observational skills. He was of average height, dressed decently with his dark hair well-coiffed. His face was unremarkable, and his expression was friendly but not overly so. No wonder Fitzwilliam had missed him. He was so extremely forgettable!

"I thank you for the offer," he replied, his mind racing through the little information he and Mrs. Collins had managed to extract from Lady Catherine before she had stormed away in high dudgeon.

G. J. Smythe, the Earl of Aberforth, was the organizer and primary backer of this particular gambling table, along with a number of other tables in various locations throughout the south of England. His actual status as a Peer of the Realm was highly doubtful—there was no mention of an Earldom of Aberforth in Lady Catherine's library, although her most recent copy of the Register was over two decades old—but everyone who knew him in Coxton called him Lord Smythe.

Smythe, whoever he really was, provided an agent at each table who offered loans to gamblers wishing to wager more than they carried at that moment. The loans were given after a contract had been signed in which Smythe guaranteed a period of at least one month in which one could pay back a loan, and in return, the receiver promised to pay back the money in a timely manner, along with fifteen percent in interest. Sometimes it was possible to negotiate a longer loan period, depending on one's history of payment.

Lady Catherine had been quite reluctant to divulge that her debt was over six months old. In fact, Ann had been the one to tell them of it after she had recovered from her dizzy spell. She had also explained that Lady Catherine had ignored not one but four increasingly-insistent requests for payment.

"Unfortunately," Fitzwilliam continued carefully, "I am already well-acquainted with the financier of this table, and I suspect it would not be prudent to owe him any more money. I am on my way to pay my debt to him before he leaves the country, and he sent me word that his departure was soon."

"You are acquainted with our backer?" the man asked, vaguely interested. The game had continued, and the rest of those around the table were paying little attention to their conversation.

"I have known Lord Smythe for some time. We are old friends, although it becomes harder to call a man a friend when one owes him too much money. I wish to even the scales between us before he travels, that I might call him _friend_ again." Then he looked down at the few pound notes he still held in his hand, all that was left of his original win. "I fear, however, that I may have lost his repayment again before I can even reach him. I know he was set to leave soon, but I never learned which particular day."

"You will be hard-pressed to catch him," the man agreed, seeming to have accepted his words without question. Perhaps it was a common story in that tavern back-room. "I believe he was planning to sail this evening."

Fitzwilliam slumped down in his seat, not needing to pretend defeat. If they had already left the country, whether for Ireland or Scotland or the Continent it mattered not, then his chance of discovering Darcy and Miss Bennet was almost nonexistent. He had a sudden vision of Miss Bennet slumped against an alley wall somewhere in Dublin, her face made up and her eyes unfocused, with her dress ripped and torn, calling out to offer herself to a passing laborer. Hard on its heels was an image of Darcy lying face down on a boardwalk near Calais, blood dripping through the cracks and falling into the mud below.

"However," the agent added, "I happen to know that his plans suffered a slight… adjustment before he left town, and he may have been delayed."

Fitzwilliam sat forward eagerly. His first thought was to ask for directions, but as knowledgeable as he was claiming to be regarding Lord Smythe, it would be suspicious for him to have traveled all this way without knowing the man's final destination. It was time for the real gamble of the evening. "The ride would not be impossible. If I left now, I could still make it."

"Perhaps," the man said doubtfully. "If it were light and you had a good horse. But over fifty miles overnight? I doubt it highly."

Fifty miles! That meant they could not be departing from Scotland, and probably not going toward Ireland unless they were sailing east from Portsmouth, which seemed unlikely. No, it had to be Dover! He was taking them to France, or possibly to the north of England, although Fitzwilliam did not believe that to be so. His instincts told him that Napoleon's France would be their goal. He felt it in his bones.

He stood quickly, grabbing his hat from the back table. "But I must make the attempt. Excuse me, gentlemen. I have a debt to repay!"

He rushed from the room, glancing back only once, newly horrified and disgusted by the hungry way the players and observers watched the dice roll. They were more like shells than living, breathing beings. Gambling had never bothered him before, but this… well, it was enough to put a man off the tables for life.

Lord Smythe's agent raised a hand in farewell, and Fitzwilliam returned the gesture, hoping that his good cheer would erase the slight tinge of interest in the man's face. He was unremarkable, but there was a look in his eye that Fitzwilliam didn't like. He seemed… dangerous. Not that the man could do anything now to hinder the rescue attempt. He could send Smythe a message no faster than Fitzwilliam would already be traveling. He _had_ to reach Dover before Darcy and Miss Bennet sailed to France.

As he settled with the innkeeper and called for his horse, he found his mind drifting to Mrs. Collins. He grinned ruefully. He had promised her so faithfully, upon their parting after their confrontation with Lady Catherine, that he would spend the afternoon sleeping then away to Coxton, where he would attempt to question the locals then rest all night before setting out first thing on the morrow to continue tracking the kidnappers.

Well, he had kept most of his promise. She had seemed so adorably worried for him, so concerned that he must care for himself as well as for everyone else. He had sworn to do his best in that regard and sealed the oath with a kiss on her hand that just might have lingered a little longer than was absolutely proper.

Well he had done his best, had he not? But a night of travel was unavoidable now. He had to reach Dover as soon as possible and immediately begin loitering at the docks, attempting to discover whether Darcy and Miss Bennet had already sailed or whether he still had time to stop them. He felt the barrel of the pistol he carried in a holster against his side press into his ribs as he mounted his horse in the tavern yard. At least he was prepared for the stopping-them part of the adventure.

He led his mount through the dark streets of the small town, both reluctant to give up the warm bed at the inn and relieved to be away from the stench of desperation in that back room. He drew his mind to the present, making sure he was as aware as possible of the road that lay ahead, for the sake of speed and his own safety.

And if, every now and then along the dark and lonely road, the image of a grave and gentle countenance ghosted up before him, warming him against the cold, well, who could really blame him?

* * *

"Miss Bennet."

Lizzy opened her eyes suddenly, tugged from a troubling dream with a mixture of annoyance and relief. She could see nothing, the darkness of the room so complete that she might have been buried in a box miles underground. There had been something like that in her dream, somewhere dark and cold, and she had been so terribly alone.

"Mr. Darcy?" Her voice was rusty. She cleared her throat quietly. "Is it time to make our attempt?"

"No. I have been able to hear voices in the corridor for some time. We must find a way tomorrow. I only awakened you because you were murmuring in your sleep. And you have been shivering for some minutes."

She was, indeed, shivering as she spoke, her blanket wrapped so tightly around her that she felt like a mummy in one of her father's books on Ancient Egypt. She was not nearly as disappointed by his news as she ought to have been. She was still so tired, and she was miserably cold. The last thing she wished to do at this moment was to escape into the dark night.

Now that she was more alert, she realized that it was not a single blanket that covered her. She wanted to roll her eyes at Mr. Darcy's misguided chivalry as her fingers discovered the second blanket, but she found herself too grateful to manage it. Had it worked, she would have slept the night through comfortably while he froze, the foolish, thoughtful man.

"I am quite cold. Could they not allow us to have a small fire? Or a few more blankets?"

"I already asked a moment ago… what did you call him? Cleft Chin? I asked for some relief, but he said everyone else is cold, too, and no one is willing to give up their own blanket for us. And he just laughed when I suggested a fire. He told me that I was the only lucky man in…" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well, anyway, he was unhelpful."

Lizzy could fill in what he had left out. He was the only lucky man in the inn because he had a woman to keep him warm.

"I wish I knew how to help you, but I have already searched the room as best I can in the dark, and there is nothing here, not even a curtain or a cloth, to add to your warmth."

Lizzy's fogged mind was still focused back on her previous thought. He had a woman to keep him warm.

"Perhaps my jacket would help," he continued. "I have been somewhat selfish in hoping I could keep it on, but if that extra layer would assist you…"

"Mr. Darcy," Lizzy said, her words a little slurred with sleepiness, "we must both rest. We already agreed on that."

"Yes, but if we both cannot, then at least one of us should. I will be fine. I will move around and keep warm while you rest."

"We must _both_ sleep," she repeated. Then, with a courage born far more of fatigue than strength of character or wisdom, she unrolled the blankets behind her and raised them up. "Come."

Lizzy could _hear_ his silence. It was embarrassed, horrified, and outraged, she was certain.

"Do you remember, sir, agreeing that we would do what we must in order to survive this unfortunate circumstance? Well, we must sleep, and apparently this is the only way."

"But, Miss Bennet," he finally choked, "we… I cannot. You are an honorable young lady, and I am a gentleman, and…"

"And rest is our best chance of ever returning to a world where either of those things matter. Sleep is always easiest in the winter when my sisters and I share a bed. This is no different."

"This is _immensely_ different! We cannot…"

"You are wasting time, sir. We must cease arguing about a situation with no other reasonable solution."

"Miss Bennet…"

"Please!" She felt her voice crack and was surprised at her own emotion. Her head was aching now along with all the rest of her, her patience was worn entirely through, and she had never wanted anything as badly as she wanted to sleep. "Please, just do as I say. No one will ever know."

"I will know," he breathed.

"Then you will know you did your best to take good care of a friend in need."

She forced herself to roll back toward the room, and she leaned up toward the source of his voice, reaching out until she caught the placket of his coat. She tugged insistently, and finally, after several moments, he let her pull him nearer. He lay down on the bed as slowly as cold honey, and when he had finally settled in beside her, he was as stiff and still as the wall on her other side.

But oh, he was warm, and Lizzy could not prevent herself from scooting closer and pressing her back all along his side as she lowered the blankets over him. Only a few minutes passed before her shivering had stopped, and she was so close to warmth and contentment that she turned over and flung her arm across his chest, pulling even nearer.

She sighed and, blessedly warm, fell back into sleep.

* * *

Fitzwilliam wrapped his muffler more tightly around his chin and ears as the chill wind bit at him, attempting to slip through the seams and neckline of his coat. He gritted his teeth and gazed up, trying to be grateful that the wind, although it snapped at him like a whip, had cleared the clouds enough for the moon to dimly light the road ahead. Charlemagne was moving more confidently now, and only speed could get them to Dover in time to help anyone.

Although at that moment, it was difficult to care about anything besides getting out of the blasted wind.

* * *

Lizzy awoke all at once, stunned into perfect stillness by the arm wrapped around her middle. She stared through the gray morning light at the offending limb for some moments before remembering the night's events, which induced in her cheeks a blush as red and violent as any military engagement. She had been so horribly brazen! She had asked a gentleman—nay, Mr. Darcy himself—to sleep beside her!

Certainly, the circumstances had been extreme, and she still could not argue with her own good sense in making the suggestion, but in the light of day, she had to wonder at her own audacity. How tiredness could addle one's mind!

Thankfully, no one besides themselves need ever know what had occurred. Not that facing him this morning would not be fraught enough. Would she ever be able to look him in the eye again?

She stiffened as she felt his arm retighten around her and his forehead press softly into the back of her neck. "Not roses," he murmured, his words barely distinguishable. "Hyacinth."

He was dreaming about flowers? Lizzy could not prevent a crooked grin from moving onto her face. How very strange. And how strangely comforting.

She very, very slowly spun onto her back and turned her head so she could see him. He was deeply asleep, his breathing heavy and calm, and he wore that same expression from the previous morning, the one of boyish innocence. He lay on his side, and his top arm was wrapped around her tightly, tightly enough that slipping away without disturbing him would be impossible.

Not that she actually had any desire to leave, she realized. She could feel the chill of the air on her cheeks, and she was more than reluctant to slide from the warm cocoon of their closeness into the lightening room.

But she would do it—she had to do it, for her own sanity. Obviously, she was growing far too dependent on him, and it was going to become more and more difficult with each incident to convince him of her independence and courage. She tensed to begin the arduous process of sliding out of his grip.

"Lizzy," he murmured. "My Lizzy."

She could not have stilled more completely had she been turned to stone. His declaration of love two nights previous (had it only been that long ago?) had been passionate and earnest, but this… this was entirely different. No one had ever spoken her name with such devotion, such tenderness.

Who was this man holding her in his arms? There were too many sides of him, too many aspects to examine before she could reach any sort of understanding. Was he the cold, haughty Lord of All He Surveyed whom she had met in Hertfordshire, the man who had denied Mr. Wickham his rightful inheritance out of jealousy? Was he the passionate-yet-cruel man who had proposed to her in Kent? Was he the brave, self-sacrificing hero who had allowed his own abduction and later grappled with said kidnappers to protect her at any cost? Or was he the gentle, loving man who whispered her name like a prayer in his sleep?

As quickly as she had stiffened in his arms, she melted, drawn to him in spite of herself and her wretched confusion. He was so warm, in more ways than one, and she craved that warmth in this cold, harsh place. She was not strong enough to pull away as she ought, nor to wake him. Instead, she turned back over, nestling her back against his chest, and closed her eyes, allowing herself to enjoy his succor as long as possible.

Unfortunately, it was not many more minutes before she felt him stirring, moving toward wakefulness. She held very still and drew in slow, deep breaths, feverishly hoping he would think her still asleep.

She knew the instant he awakened enough to realize his position because his arm tensed and his body straightened.

"What have I done?" he breathed. "What have I…?" Memory must have returned then because he relaxed a little. "The cold."

She felt him lean up slowly on his elbow and look down at her. After a silent moment or two, he laid his head back down behind hers and released a sigh that she felt more than heard. "Dear God," he whispered, pressing his face into her neck, "protect her. I do not ask for her love—that is a gift only she could give, and I am just now beginning to see my own unworthiness of it. I do not ask for my own safety. I ask only for thy protection for this precious lady. Keep her, watch over her, and guide me to know how to return her to her home and family."

He continued his prayer in silence, the only sign of its continuing the brushing of his lips against her skin. Finally he ended, releasing another sigh.

The warmth coursing through her now was far less heated and far more peaceful. He had prayed for her! She wanted to turn over and throw her arms around him, to offer an embrace of gratitude and reassurance, but she had to remain still, certain he would not wish to know she had overheard.

 _Since he will not pray for himself, dear Lord,_ she thought fiercely, _I shall. Keep us both safe. Bring us both home. And comfort him in his…_ What should she say? Loss? Heartbreak? For some reason, the words were too painful to think. _His fears,_ she finished lamely, with a weak hope that God would know what she had meant.

"Rise and shine!" called the cheerful voice of That Man, accompanied by the sound of chair legs scraping over bare floor.

Mr. Darcy's instant tension mirrored hers, and he braced himself to move off the bed, but even as it occurred to her that him being caught in her bed mattered not in the least, he relaxed and returned to his former position. Lizzy twisted her head a little to look at him, and his answering look was both chagrinned and amused.

"Well, well, well!" That Man laughed, striding in before moving aside for Scissors, the shortest of his henchmen (who also happened to have a rather haphazard haircut), who was carrying a breakfast tray. He was followed by Cleft Chin, whose eyes were bleary, carrying a pitcher of water and a washbasin. "Looks like _someone_ had a cozy night! I am disgustingly jealous, my love, but needs must, as they say."

Mr. Darcy moved to a sitting position and slid back against the headboard before helping Lizzy to do the same. She did not even attempt to move away when he pulled her into his side, huddling her against him. It was too cold to part anyway, she reasoned, and the more like lovers they seemed, the better.

"Now to business. Today will be much easier on all of us, I hope. We will be traveling again, but you shall only be on horseback for an hour or so, my dove." At the mention of horses, Lizzy awakened fully to all the soreness in her muscles, but she refused to grimace. She would give him no excuse to offer her comfort or a change of traveling companions.

"Where are we going?" Mr. Darcy asked tonelessly.

"Not far," That Man replied with a worrisome little grin. "We shall call it a home-away-from-home. Now, eat and make yourselves presentable, _gentlemen,_ and we shall leave presently."

He turned to leave, but Lizzy called out, "And a visit to the privy, Lord Geoffrey?" She had no wish to use the chamber pot again in Mr. Darcy's presence if she could help it.

"Certainly, certainly," he replied carelessly, not even turning around. "Just be quick about it."

Only after he left did she realize she had finally called him by his name. She was a little angry at herself, but it was too late to keep herself from assigning him a name in her mind. He was That Man no longer.

A quarter-of-an-hour later, she and Mr. Darcy were mounted and ready in the courtyard, waiting for the rest of the men to finish loading a new mount with supplies. Lizzy tried to look cold and unhappy (which was not difficult) instead of attentive, but she kept her eyes drifting back regularly to the items being strung on the horse. She saw mostly foodstuffs, which was certainly odd, but also lamps and oil, and the distinctive sheen of folded oilskin. It could only be that they intended a sea journey.

Lizzy wondered idly whether she would enjoy such a trip under normal circumstances. She had never left England, never really been on any boat larger than a small ferry crossing a river, and she thought that an ocean voyage, even just across the channel, would be quite an adventure. But she had no desire to go any farther from her home than she already was, not now, and Mr. Darcy was probably correct that finding their way home from France would be much harder than from Kent.

She let her eyes drift toward the road, hoping she looked impatient to be off, and set her mind to thinking out possible escape plans. She could call for a break, claiming a need to relieve herself, then disappear into the forest. Perhaps in the fuss to catch her, Mr. Darcy could break away as well. But how would they find one another again? She could try to find civilization again on her own, but she would have to avoid roads as well as being tracked through the trees, and what if she became lost? Besides, Mr. Darcy was correct—they were in this together. Not only were they more likely to survive an escape that way, but her conscience would never forgive her if she got away but he did not.

They had to escape as a team or not at all.

The company finally moved out, and it was a great relief to Lizzy when they passed out of the village and she was able to lean more fully against Mr. Darcy's back. The morning was still chilly, although the bitter wind had died, and having grown used to sharing his warmth, she was grateful to take advantage of it once again. She noticed abstractly that it was significantly easier to be close to him this morning than it had been the previous day. That made sense—proximity often leant itself to ease—but it was more than just his temperature that drew her to him now, and she knew it.

Somewhere in the process of sharing the horse yesterday, sharing the blankets last night, and sharing their concerns and conclusions, the once-hateful Mr. Darcy had become her partner. It was not just a lack of animosity or forced unity. It was trust. She _trusted_ him to watch over her, and she trusted herself to watch over him.

And it surprised her that, in coming to trust him, he had become her friend.

* * *

 _Faster_ , Fitzwilliam thought, nudging Charlemagne's flank again despite knowing that the loyal stallion was already going as fast as he could. The action was as much to keep Fitzwilliam's own eyes open, his own blood pumping, as it was to encourage his mount. He had made good time, considering the miserable, moonless night that had finally ended, but there was still so far to go.

 _Fly, Charlemagne, for Heaven's sake! Fly!_

* * *

She had planned to concentrate carefully on a plan to escape, but she found herself nodding in and out of sleep, her head sliding against Mr. Darcy's shoulder. She straightened a bit and shook herself, trying to stay awake.

"Sleep if you wish to," Mr. Darcy murmured.

Lizzy jerked fully awake, blushing as she blinked her eyes and tried to focus. She had been fighting a heavy sleepiness since the moment she had entered the carriage. Apparently she had lost the battle.

She looked up at Mr. Darcy and laughed ruefully. "I always grow tired in carriages. My family teases me for it relentlessly, particularly my father."

He gave her a fond smile. "Fitzwilliam is the same way, as it happens, no matter how rutted the road is beneath us."

Lizzy noticed Lord Geoffrey, who sat on the opposite bench of the carriage beside Scissors, watching their exchange over the top of his newspaper. She considered sticking her tongue out at him but chose to ignore him instead.

"You and your cousin are close, are you not?" she asked Mr. Darcy.

"We were once," he answered carelessly. "Time and distance have separated us significantly. The only time we see one another at all these days is our required yearly visit to Rosings, and we spend little time together except in company. He was the perfect playmate for a young boy, but he and I travel different paths now. He has grown… somewhat dissipated."

Lizzy required a moment to catch on. Anyone who had seen the men together would know his words were lies, but why? Ah—perhaps he wished to hide their closeness. Otherwise their abductors might fear a rescue attempt. Dissembling would be quite sensible.

"I am sorry to hear that," she said sympathetically, placing a hand on his forearm. "It has been somewhat the same for me with Charlotte. We were such good friends before she left, but now… Well, it was an extremely long visit."

Her statement was partially true. They were not as close since Charlotte's marriage, thanks to Lizzy's vocal (and continuing) disapproval, but their visit had renewed most of their intimacy. She wondered for a moment whether she would ever see dear Charlotte again, but upon feeling tears pricking her eyes, she thrust the thought aside.

"But then, you know that already," she said, feeling Lord Geoffrey's eyes on them again. She offered Mr. Darcy what she hoped looked like the private, tender smile of a lover, and she sidled up against him, his arm falling more fully around her than it had been as she dozed. "And I suppose that while in some ways, this visit has been dull, it has proven rewarding in other, more significant ways."

Mr. Darcy's eyes widened for just a moment before he returned her smile. "I am glad I am not the only one who thinks it was well worth it." He reached out for both her hands, lifting them to his mouth as he pulled her even more tightly against him. He dropped a lingering kiss on the back of each hand, his eyes holding hers, before lowering them back to her lap.

Lizzy looked away quickly, surprised at the fluttering in her middle and the sudden cloudiness of her thoughts. She flexed her hands, trying to dispel the tingling sensation.

She glanced toward Lord Geoffrey, expecting some sort of flirtatious look or comment regarding his jealousy. He was, indeed, still watching, but he only tossed her a wink and a smug smile before returning to his reading.

What on earth had that meant? He had almost looked conspiratorial, but in what way could he possibly imagine they had been conspiring?

She straightened and leaned back, still encircled by Mr. Darcy's arm but no longer wrapped against him. The idea that Lord Geoffrey might actually be encouraging her growing appreciation for Mr. Darcy was far too confusing. She tried to dismiss the thought at once.

A few minutes passed as Lizzy continued not-analyzing Lord Geoffrey's behavior or her feelings for Mr. Darcy, but then her ruminations were interrupted by Lord Geoffrey closing his paper and muttering something about leaving the rest with Reg, who was seated on the box beside the coachman. He turned to slide open the small coachman's window on the wall behind him.

The sliding piece was stuck, however, moving only half-an-inch or so back and forth. Lord Geoffrey fiddled with it, growing more and more frustrated. He cursed it and pressed with all his strength, angling his body for a more effective direction.

Lizzy had been watching the scene with mild amusement, but as he shifted in his seat, the dull light coming in through the side window glinted from something resting in the top of his left boot. The handle of something.

A knife. He had a knife in his boot. At least, she was fairly certain that was a small hilt she had seen.

It was not unusual, Lizzy knew. A gentleman was always prepared, and it was wise to carry a tool to defend oneself, especially when traveling. However, since gentlemen's clothing was so closely-fitted, boots were some of the few places where a weapon would be invisible. Mr. Darcy's weapons would have long ago been stripped from him, and a boot knife could prove very useful.

She thought fiercely for a few moments, pulling together the pieces of an idea and analyzing the possible outcomes. She could land them both in terrible trouble, even worse than they already faced, but they had agreed that they must escape today. They both knew that success might involve some heavy risks.

Lord Geoffrey grunted and continued pushing from several angles, too stubborn to simply give up and call out the side window instead.

"If you have your man there push up against the frame while you push to the side, it may come loose," Lizzy offered, trying to sound peevish. "Papa's carriage has a similar problem."

Lord Geoffrey gave her a frustrated look but then gestured to a bored-looking Scissors, who had spent the bulk of the ride staring out the side window. It was only a matter of moments before Scissors was up on his knees on the bench, facing fully away from Lizzy as he braced the window casement, while Lord Geoffrey was gripping the sliding piece with both hands, his face mostly toward the back wall.

Lizzy tensed, waiting for just the right moment.

"All right. On three. One… two… three!"

Three things happened at once. Scissors pushed the window frame up as hard as he could. Lord Geoffrey pressed against the slider with all his strength, closing his eyes as he pushed. And Lizzy leaned across the gap between the benches, grasped the hilt of the knife with two quick fingers, and slid it out. She sat back just before Lord Geoffrey's eyes opened again, the short dagger hidden between her legs, her eyes staring languidly toward the now-open coachman's window.

"Thank you, Miss Bennet," Lord Geoffrey said, looking satisfied. "Remind me to consult you in the future regarding similar difficulties."

She offered him a superior nod and looked away. As Scissors settled back against the bench, his eyes drifting to the side window again, and Lord Geoffrey spoke with the driver through the small window, Lizzy palmed the knife again, holding its blade against the inside of her wrist.

"You know," she said, turning into Mr. Darcy's side again, "I think the color of this coat rather suits you. Why do you only wear dark colors?" As she spoke, she ran her hand up inside his lapel in a brazenly familiar manner, until her fingers found the top of his inner pocket.

He remained very still, and his answer was just slightly longer in coming than it should have been. "Dark colors are more distinguished. They are reliable."

She shook her head and smoothed the lapel between both her hands, allowing the dagger to slip down into his pocket. "You are very handsome in black, I freely admit, but this tan is more approachable, somehow. Perhaps a light-colored coat would make for a nice change once in a while."

She began to move her hands away, but he reached up and grabbed one. With a slow, purposeful movement, he raised her open hand and rested it against his waistcoat, over his heart. She looked up at him, startled, and felt her own heart jump at the expression on his face.

"I will speak to my tailor about it as soon as possible," his mouth said.

His eyes said more, so much more that she felt scraped raw by his message. He was impressed by her action, yes, but it was bigger than just that. Lizzy had never before felt the way his look made her feel right then. She was… she felt… oh, how to put it into words?

He brushed his thumb slowly across the back of her hand, across her splayed fingers.

She felt adored. She felt passionately and profoundly _adored._

She tucked herself against his side with a quiet sigh. She drew her hand back into her lap, but she brought his with it.

She fell asleep less than a quarter-of-an-hour later, her sleepy attention tugged equally between the sensation of her fingers mixed up with his (how she suddenly hated that men always wore gloves!) and the feeling of her arm pressed against the short, hard blade of the knife inside his coat.

* * *

Colonel Fitzwilliam both appreciated and despised Dover. It represented everything heart-wrenching about leaving home each time his company went on campaign, but it also reminded him of the pure relief and pleasure of returning to his home soil after months away.

At least, he thought as he forced his tired eyes to focus on the streets around him and the mouth of the harbor in the distance, this was a place he knew. He pressed his exhausted mount through the early morning crowd of fishermen selling this morning's catch and shopkeepers, traders, and servants seeking the best price.

He knew it was a miracle he had made such good time. He was lucky that the moon had come out, and he was even luckier that although his horse had not gotten much rest that day either, Charlemagne had found enough strength to keep going. He could feel the poor beast's weariness now, but it was all right—he had played his part well. Fitzwilliam stopped quickly at a stable yard near the docks and paid for boarding, adding an extra few coins for sweet feed as a reward.

Upon leaving the yard, he moved straight toward the dock, but he stopped short when he realized that even from nearby, his eyes were so tired he could barely see. Would it not be ironic to have made it all this way, perhaps even in time, and then to fail because Darcy and Miss Bennet had passed unnoticed right under his nose?

Not to mention that he had no idea upon what sort of vessel Lord Smythe would attempt to sail. There were no regular passenger ships to Calais, nor had there been since the Revolution. There were navy ships, obviously not Smythe's most likely choice. There were still a few mail ships, some of which were large enough to carry a couple of gentlepeople in the holds along with crates and goods, but there were often soldiers onboard as guards. Many of the ships in the harbor, even the fishing vessels, were probably already outfitted with smuggler's holes. The French goods that had sustained the English elite during the last few decades, despite any embargos and blockades, could not be supplied by the few French merchants who had set up shop in London.

But what could he do? Coffee might give him a bit of wakefulness, but even if he caught sight of them, in his current state he would be of little use in a rescue. His muscles felt like jelly.

He moved to the side of the pavement and leaned against the wall of an obliging shop, closing his eyes involuntarily. His mind wandered to the last time he had been in Dover. He had journeyed to aid an old friend, a former officer, in installing him and his family in a prosperous carpentry shop that had belonged to his father-in-law. The man had been a good soldier, but a wound to his left eye had removed him from active duty, and he had chosen to retire and start over again elsewhere.

Yes, that had been a pleasant trip, as Captain Cardon had always been a cheerful companion, but bittersweet to see him so reduced…

Fitzwilliam started as his head nodded forward, and he jerked himself upright, pushing off the wall. He could not do this! He had to help Darcy, but he also needed a few hours of sleep!

What could he do?

One final spike of energy rushed through him as the obvious answer finally appeared through the fog in his mind. Cardon would help him! Cardon was trustworthy, reliable, and as strong as a bear, and on top of it all, he was acquainted with Darcy! He would willingly keep watch for an hour or two while Fitzwilliam rested, would he not?

He rushed around the corner, breaking into a full run as he moved up the main street. He could not waste a moment.

Now, he had only to pray that Cardon was in town, and that they were not too late.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I need to quickly respond to a couple of comments. One reviewer pointed out that in canon, Charlotte Lucas-Collins calls Lizzy "Eliza." That's totally true, and I apologize for messing that up, but I'm probably not going to adjust it at this point. If I ever decide to do something more official with this story, I'll make the change. And to the (conveniently) anonymous reviewer who complained that there is no way Fitzwilliam could ride seventy miles overnight, you are also right… probably. But think of it this way. Fitzwilliam is not just a gentleman with enough funds to purchase a quality mount—he is a soldier with significant experience in the saddle. He would have already prepared for a long journey on horseback, meaning he would have with him some high quality feed in case there was little time to stop for grazing. Also, the entire journey is on roads, not wooded trails. From what I understand, it's totally plausible under those conditions that Fitzwilliam and Charlemagne could travel around fifty miles in nine to twelve hours. Coxton is already about ten miles west of Rosings Park, the location of which is, theoretically, somewhere near Westerham, which is about seventy miles from Dover. So in the end, Fitzwilliam went from Rosings (say, 65 miles from Dover) to Coxton (55 miles from Dover), where his horse rested for around two hours, then rode for around ten hours, arriving in the mid-morning at Dover. Is it a stretch? Sure. But it's not impossible. And it makes for good drama. So I've gone back and corrected the mileage Smythe's agent named (maybe he grew up in Westerham?) in the last chapter, but I'm not going to change Fitzwilliam's ride.

Anyway, thanks for all the reviews/follows. They keep me on my toes. And for your information, I'm pretty sure this is the longest chapter of the story. Sorry so long, but a lot needed to happen.

Disclaimer: I am not Jane Austen, and in all reality, I'm pretty glad I'm not. If I were, I'd have had to handwrite all this.

Chapter Five

Lizzy had never been to Dover. She had been to Portsmouth some years before, and in some ways the two towns were very similar, although Dover was the smaller. In both cities, the docks bustled with seamen carrying ropes and nets, cargo and trunks, barrels and crates. The former passengers in both cities varied between cheerfully windswept and still slightly green-tinged, and the future passengers waited in crawling lines with impatience and anticipation. Both cities smelled of the seaside, with the freshness of the open sea air mixed up in the stink of kelp and fish and salt. The only difference she could discern, besides the exact layout of the harbor, was that the passenger vessels were smaller here than in Portsmouth.

Well, that and the fact that the shipyards of Dover were filled with grand naval vessels in varying degrees of production and repair. She did not remember that from her trip to Portsmouth, although as she considered it, they had probably been there. England had, after all, been at war with France since she could remember. She simply had known of no reason to remark them before, she supposed. Now she had reason to remark _every_ ship, for each one might be the vehicle of her damnation.

Lizzy, Mr. Darcy, and Lord Geoffrey's men had gathered at the end of a street leading toward the harbor. There were more men now than before, four more having been added to their number during their previous carriage stop. They had obviously been planning to meet Lord Geoffrey there, although she was uncertain from where they had come or why.

She gazed out at the sparkling water and focused on the ships she could identify. It had been years since she had studied sea vessels with her friends, an attempt to add more authenticity to their pirate games. She recognized the small fishing vessels, piled high with their morning catch, the larger sloops carrying significant cargo, and the packets, middle-sized narrow cutters originally used for mailbags and passengers but mostly now turned into quick navy messengers. Which one, she wondered, would carry her away from her home forever?

"Follow me," Lord Geoffrey said, motioning to the men who were nonchalantly surrounding Lizzy and Mr. Darcy. "I sent word from the carriage stop, so they should be ready for us."

Lizzy looked up and met Mr. Darcy's eyes as they moved forward. She wanted to reach out and catch his hand again, to both reassure herself and to comfort him against the anxiety she could see in his face. Bother the breeches and tall, stupid hat she wore that would make such a gesture mortifying!

They moved toward the wider piers, where the mid-sized vessels were lined up in angled rows. They were forced to walk in a single line as they passed loud boatswains yelling at scurrying crews and teams of dockworkers unloading bags and crates from various decks. Lizzy tried to look around, to set her mind to analyzing what was available around them, but there was too much to take in, and the setting was far too unfamiliar.

She searched desperately, hoping to see a man who looked to be employed by the harbormaster or an honest-looking naval commander, someone with authority to whom they could run for protection, but if there was one nearby, he was not distinguishable enough for her to locate him. She considered crying out to the seamen or dockworkers, but they were a rough, disreputable-looking lot, and she was far more inclined to protect her belongings from them (had she had any) than to ask for their aid.

There were a handful of captains visible on the decks of their ships, but they were all busily engaged in their own ships' business, and she could not risk her cry being ignored. The consequences to herself and Mr. Darcy might be expensive indeed.

She glanced up at him again as they walked and found herself irritated beyond all measure. Was this not the moment, in novels and stories, when the hero lashed out at the villains, drawing a hidden weapon (which she _knew_ he now possessed) and boldly rescuing the damsel? Should he not even now be running back up the street, leaving the captors either gravely injured or in the custody of courageous observers whom he had rallied to their cause with a rousing speech?

Apparently this hero was not planning any such feat. Instead he was walking with his gaze straight ahead, practically ignoring his surroundings and looking rather pathetically defeated.

She swallowed her fury, letting it burn low inside her, and squared her shoulders. If he would not put himself forward to rescue them, then she would do it for him. She refused to be spirited away to the Continent and dragged to who knew what miserable end without at least attempting to fight!

She marched forward, her next few steps unfaltering, and then felt all her resolve melt away at the sight of the ship in front of which Lord Geoffrey had paused their little procession. It was one of the packets, the quick cutters formerly used to ferry passengers and mail across the channel. It was loaded down with bags of letters and packages across its deck, with more still being carried by its crew down into the ship's shallow belly. Perhaps it was carrying mail and supplies to English soldiers in Spain and Portugal.

There was no hope for escape, she realized, staring at the ill-favored vessel. It was moored at the far end of a narrow dock. She and Mr. Darcy were surrounded by their subtly armed abductors, not a single one of whom had shown the slightest glimmer of sympathy for their plight. They were boarding a ship with a crew that looked as if it had been gathered from the very worst inhabitants of the Old Bailey. The captain of the vessel, a grizzled, unkempt fellow who stood speaking in low tones with Lord Geoffrey, was now eyeing the two prisoners with interest, with a most unpleasant leer for Lizzy herself. The boat was narrow, with no hiding places whatsoever, and the hold below had no portholes or openings, no way for them even to slip out into the water and swim back.

No wonder Mr. Darcy had already given up hope.

Lizzy barely paid attention as she was shuffled on board and half-pushed down the narrow stairs into the darkened hold. What did it matter now? They were as good as lost.

"You take the first watch, Wellbourn," Smythe called down to Cleft Chin, who was in the process of guiding Lizzy by the arm through the jumble of boxes and crates in the dark hold.

"I cannot!" Cleft Chin turned to Reg, who was just behind Mr. Darcy. "I am nigh to falling down in a dead sleep right now. He cannot ask it. And besides, I thought he said we were to meet in the prow to discuss our next steps."

"'Tis Lord Geoff's order that you guard them," Reg replied automatically, although he looked dubious. "As an initiate, Wellbourn, your task is to prove yourself strong enough to do whatever is asked of you, and if you cannot manage guard duty for a few more hours, then you have no right to know our plans at all. You are already frighteningly close to being relieved of your position here. We would not want that, would we?"

Cleft Chin looked as if he had been slapped. "No, sir. But I say, it was not my fault I nearly fell asleep on duty last night! What else is an exhausted man to do when left alone in a quiet corridor for hours on end?"

When had Cleft Chin fallen asleep? Lizzy felt immensely cheated to have missed it.

Reg's face looked dangerous in the half-light, and Lizzy could see that his grip on Mr. Darcy's upper arm was tightening convulsively. Mr. Darcy watched the interplay between the two men with mild interest, drawing no attention to himself.

"You failed, Wellbourn. I have even less tolerance for failure than Geoff has, regardless of excuses."

"Well, I am strong enough!" Cleft Chin replied, sticking his chest out and again reminding Lizzy powerfully of a little boy. She had not realized until that moment how very young he was, probably her own age, or even Mary's. His stature and serious countenance had made him seem much older. "I will prove myself!"

"Then get to it, and no more complaining. I will send one of Captain Markham's men down to keep you company as soon as I go back on deck. They are a reliable lot, when it comes to making an extra coin or two. Not that either of you should be needed. Markham installed a very reliable bar on the brig several years ago."

Cleft Chin nodded and continued forward with Lizzy ahead of him.

There was a single small room in the prow, some sort of storage area, and into this Lizzy and Mr. Darcy were led. With a smirk, Reg placed the single oil lamp he had been carrying on the a stack of broken crates in the center of the room. "I suggest you not take it into your heads to start a fire. You would die in here of all the smoke long before it ever created an escape hole, and even if it did, I doubt either of you is a good enough swimmer to make it across the channel."

Then he walked out, and Cleft Chin followed behind him with his shoulders already slumping tiredly again. He closed the door, and they heard the sound of a heavy iron bar coming down over the doorway, followed by a crate scraping along the floor of the hold and stopping right in front.

Lizzy chose to not even look around the room. She only had the barest impression of very compact walls hung with ropes and other paraphernalia before she dropped to the floor, crossing her ankles, hunching over her knees, and curling into a ball of perfect misery.

They were lost. It was time to accept it. She had already taken her last step on English soil, and she had not even thought to note it. Where would they be taken from there? Would she be separated from Mr. Darcy as soon as they finished the crossing, or would she have a little more time before finding herself alone?

She tried to calm the hitch in her breathing caused by her fear and sorrow. She did not want to cry, not now, but she was uncertain she could prevent it.

It took a few moments for her to recognize the sound of Mr. Darcy's boots clomping around the small room, and she looked up at him furiously. She fully intend to deliver a blazing chastisement for his blatant disregard of her wish for quiet in which to indulge her misery, but something about the expression on his face stopped her. All the dejection she had seen earlier had disappeared, and his eyes were fierce and intently fixed on the door as he paced. Just in front of the doorway, he stopped, fully alert.

"Mr. Darcy?" she questioned.

"Shhh," he answered, motioning her closer to the door. "Listen."

She stood and moved forward quietly, realizing that just beyond the wall there were voices.

"You cannot just leave! You were ordered to stay here and help me."

That was Cleft Chin. He was still in the hold, but he stood at the far end near the stairs to the deck.

"'E's not my master!" replied a voice she did not recognize. "I told 'im I'd come down, and so I 'ave, but we're shoving off in just a moment, and there's work to be done. Why would ye need two guards anyway for two rich milksops behind an iron-barred door? 'ow could they possibly escape? And what would they do if they did, slap you to death wit' all their money?"

"You're to stay," Cleft Chin argued. "I am too tired to watch them on my own."

"So sleep! They canna get out."

"I know Reg paid you to come down and help," Cleft Chin said, sounding suddenly triumphant. "If I tell him you failed to do what you were paid for, he'll take the money back and make you regret it."

"Not that he paid me much," the man grumbled, his voice moving toward the prow. "Won't even pay for more 'an a tankard or two in port. I get better tips for carrying passenger bags to their coaches."

The men subsided into silence, and Lizzy moved away from the door, seething with frustration. "Was it important to emphasize that we are now even more securely captive here? It is all hopeless!"

"We need to get them both in here," Mr. Darcy hissed to her. "Now!"

"But why? What would that accomplish?"

Mr. Darcy approached her, his features taut and a little frightening in the flickering of the badly trimmed lamp. He grasped her shoulders urgently. "I know you are upset, and I freely admit that any chance we have of successfully escaping is painfully slight, but I believe there _is_ a chance, and if we do not take it, we may regret it for the rest of our lives. Now I beg you to trust me. We have no time to argue or discuss—after this ship pulls away from the pier, all hope is truly lost. Can you do it, Elizabeth? Can you trust me?"

"Yes." The word came easily, surprising her.

He beamed at her, his smile as brilliant as the sun reflecting off the sea outside. Her heartbeat stuttered at the sight. He was so beautiful!

She was still stiff and blinking as he spun away and began searching the walls with his eyes and hands, touching every rope, bundle, and container, and muttering about distractions. Lizzy watched for only a moment before a simple answer occurred to her. She opened her mouth and screamed.

He jumped in surprise, knocking down an array of mops leaned in the corner. But at the sound of the two men's footsteps pounding toward them, he pushed her against the far wall and ran back to stand beside the entrance, taking up one of the fallen mops like a quarterstaff. She barely had time to wonder about his intent before the box slid aside and the door was flung open.

"What's wrong?" cried Cleft Chin, his eyes concerned. He remained just outside the door.

Her mind raced, and she could barely think, given the pounding of feet on the deck above. They had heard her cry outside! Oh, what had she been thinking? Why had she screamed so loudly? The entire ship would be on alert.

She put all the fear she had ever felt into her voice. "It was over there! The biggest I have ever seen! It tried to bite me!"

If Cleft Chin had not been so slow and tired, had the sailor not been so eager to get back on deck, both men would have stopped to think and realized she could only be referring to a rat. They would have laughed in her face and slammed the bar over the door in a trice. But her terror brought them both forward just a few steps.

Just far enough for Mr. Darcy to wallop the scruffy, young sailor with the mop handle. He swung with such force that the man went down instantly, crumpling into a heap on the wooden floor.

Cleft Chin reacted slowly, finally jumping forward toward Mr. Darcy after nearly a full second, but he skidded to a stop just in time to keep the short dagger in Mr. Darcy's hand from sliding into his chest.

"Turn around and tell them all is well," Mr. Darcy said, his voice low and dangerous, "or you will die."

The man took one long look at Mr. Darcy's forbidding expression before nodding and spinning toward the men who were leaping down into the hold.

"What happened?" Lord Geoffrey cried.

"Nothing, nothing," Cleft Chin answered, chuckling weakly. "She had a bit of a scare. A rat!"

The group stopped moving and relaxed, although their expressions were deeply annoyed, Reg's most of all.

Mr. Darcy wiggled the knife against Cleft Chin's back, which elicited a few more words. "Go back to your business, sir. I shall take care of the vermin and settle them again."

Lord Geoffrey shook his head, equal parts frustration and amusement. "And here I thought you so brave, Miss Bennet!"

"I dislike rats," she said, trying to hide the trembling of her voice, "and I could swear it was the second biggest one I have ever seen."

Lord Geoffrey, who had turned to follow his men up the stairs, paused and looked back at her. "The second biggest? Where did you see the first?"

"In a parlor, sir. In Kent. Holding a rapier. Although I suppose technically now this hold contains both of the oversized pests."

Lord Geoffrey burst out laughing, his barks so fierce that he was forced to bend in half and slap his thighs. Lizzy could not help her own tiny smile. That one had been rather good, she thought.

"My darling, you are a gem! I am doing the Continent a great service by bringing you to its shores."

He turned to go, but paused when Reg looked back with a frown. "Wellbourn, where is the sailor I sent down to share guard duty with you?"

Lizzy tensed, and she noticed Mr. Darcy pressing the knife harder against Cleft Chin's back.

"He had to… relieve himself. Said he'd only be a moment."

"You sent him aid?" Lord Geoffrey asked Reg, his expression deeply displeased. "If he cannot guard them down here on his own…"

"It was just until we leave the harbor, in case Mr. Darcy gets any ideas," Reg answered, his posture defiant.

"This may surprise you, Reg," Lord Geoffrey replied dangerously, "but this is still my crew, and I still give the orders."

It was obvious that Reg wanted to argue, but he held his tongue and nodded, offering only a stiff, "Of course."

"Carry on," Lord Geoffrey said to Cleft Chin as he finished glaring at Reg and they continued up the stairs and out of sight.

Cleft Chin remained very still until Lord Geoffrey's boots fully disappeared onto the deck. Then he nearly collapsed where he stood, but Mr. Darcy grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him inside, closing the door. He motioned with the dagger to the far corner of the small room, and Cleft Chin just made it there before his knees buckled. He mewled from the ground, "Please, sir, don't kill me! I've a wife and child at home, and they need me, sir."

"Oh, bosh," Mr. Darcy said with an eye-roll. "You are not a day over nineteen, and if you are already irresponsible enough to have a wife and child at your mercy, then I suspect they shall be better off without you. Now stay there and be silent."

The man, who was more obviously a boy with every passing moment, nodded and closed his lips tightly, slumping against the wall.

"Now what, sir?" Lizzy asked. "The deck will still be crawling with enemies."

"That is where costuming becomes rather important," he answered, eyeing their two captives with distaste.

Too many minutes later, and after significant difficulties with maneuvering the unconscious sailor, Lizzy and Mr. Darcy were dressed as their captives. Lizzy thought the loose trousers of the seaman much more comfortable than the breeches she had worn for the past two days, and she was ridiculously grateful to the poor man for parting with them, however unwillingly.

"Now, I recall you mentioning that you played pirate as a child, Miss Bennet. What do you know about knots?" Mr. Darcy asked, his eyes staying warningly on Cleft Chin.

"Rather more than an accomplished lady should, sir."

"Excellent. Would you be so good as to tie our two friends securely to the support beams there?"

Lizzy went to work immediately, once again feeling an anxious need to giggle. One day she would have to write letters to John Lucas, Martin Golding, and Walter Terry, reminding them of nine-year-old John's admonition that pirating skills might always come in handy when they were older. How right he had been!

Mr. Darcy watched her with an admiring smile, finally returning the small blade to his pocket as Lizzy finished tying scraps of oilcloth around the men's mouths as gags. "You are a marvel, Miss Bennet. Well done."

She blushed with pleasure, noting how exceedingly handsome his face was when he was openly impressed. She thought she might like to see that look often, preferably directed at herself.

He moved to the near wall of the small room. "Now," he said, tugging a longer length of rope from a hook, "we must make our way off this boat."

"And how do you propose we do that, sir?"

He shrugged with affected nonchalance. "Simply walk up the stairs, move aft, tie the rope to an anchor point off the stern and, when no one is looking, shimmy down into the water. We can wait below the pier until they sail away. Then we can make our way up one of the ladders or, if all else fails, call for help."

"You say all that as if any of it is likely to work!" Lizzy cried, horrified. "There is no shelter on deck, only the short main cabin behind which to huddle. Sailors are constantly moving across the deck and in the rigging. We shall be observed for certain!"

"Have you a better idea?" he asked intently, truly seeming to mean the question. "We must get off, and this is the best I can do. I would very much appreciate a better option."

Lizzy sank back, leaning against the wall near her. "I have none. It is just so foolhardy."

"And if you think it is not galling to leave so much dependent on chance, then you do not know me at all, but we have no other choice."

"I see that," she replied, feeling despair weigh her down again. She tried to swallow around the heart lodged in her throat. "But if we are caught…"

"Miss Bennet, if we are caught, then it is God's will. But we must try. If anything goes wrong and I am caught alone, keep running. Do not turn back. I shall take care of myself, and they have no reason to harm me. The money I can offer them is worth more than any revenge they might seek for your loss."

He stepped toward her, quickly unbuttoned his waistcoat, the same one he had been wearing since their capture, and ripped out a section of lining. Several large coins slid out. He stepped over to the unconscious sailor, who was just beginning to stir, and dropped one into the pocket of the long gentleman's shirt he now wore. He did the same for Cleft Chin, who raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"For a new jacket," Mr. Darcy explained to the young man. "We are not thieves."

Cleft Chin looked down and nodded once, a little abashed.

Then Mr. Darcy drew Lizzy near the door and pressed a handful of guineas into her hand as he whispered almost silently, "This will get you to London. Go to my townhouse in Grosvenor Square, number one-hundred forty-eight, tell my butler Connors everything that has happened, and explain that you need to get a message to Colonel Fitzwilliam. Tell Connors that you must stay there until I can get word to you. Whatever happens, do not return to your family or friends, for Lord Geoffrey and the others might find you there."

Lizzy wanted to ask a thousand questions, but she only let one escape as she dropped the coins into her own coat pocket. "And what if I am caught and you are not?"

"That would be impossible," he answered, "for I shall be with you every step of the way. They will not catch you without me."

She nodded, swallowing hard again. "I am afraid."

He reached out and cupped her jaw in his palm, running one thumb soothingly across her cheek. He had removed his gloves when changing his jacket, and his fingertip was slightly rough against her skin. She thought it might be the nicest thing she had ever felt. "So am I."

She stretched up on her toes and pressed her lips against his, the roaring of her blood in her ears so loud that she would not have heard a gunshot just outside the room. She held there for only a second, maybe two, before dropping her heels.

His eyes were wide open, staring at her in wonder as she stepped slightly back.

"For luck," she explained, swallowing down her belated embarrassment. Now was no time to be missish.

He nodded once, closed his eyes tightly for a moment, then opened them and released a deep breath as he lifted the latch. "Then let us go."

The hold was empty, as it had been before. Lizzy followed Mr. Darcy, creeping through the stacks of crates rather than walking down the main pathway, but it was unnecessary, as no one came down the stairs. They stopped at the bottom, listening intently.

Lizzy gasped sharply as the ship rocked slightly and she felt the definite motion of the packet pulling away from its mooring. She grabbed Mr. Darcy's forearm.

"We must hurry," he whispered, tugging her forward.

There were several voices on deck, but none directly by, so they crept up the stairs, Mr. Darcy only getting high enough to peek outside. After a moment, he motioned for her to follow him, and he moved quickly to the top, disappearing.

Lizzy drew in a final deep breath and moved after him, trying to remember to walk with the quick, rolling gait of a sailor.

There was a flurry of well-organized activity on deck, but most of it was concentrated at the center, around the base of the mast and in the rigging, and at the prow, where Lizzy could make out Lord Geoffrey and his companions gathered in laughing discussion. Most of the group was facing out to sea, although Lord Geoffrey himself was turned toward the cabin and hold.

They thought they had won, she thought wryly.

She gazed toward them for one more moment as she moved away from the stairs, and her heart suddenly jumped to her throat as Lord Geoffrey's eyes swept toward her, pausing. They had been seen!

She froze in place. What should she do? If she dove from the ship's side, dragging Mr. Darcy with her, would they survive the fall? Would they be able to escape? Would the men pursue them, or would the public nature of their surroundings prevent them from giving chase?

Then, just as she decided to run, Lord Geoffrey's gaze skipped away from her, and he returned to his conversation calmly.

He had not seen her, or at least not recognized her!

She considered dropping to her knees at that moment and offering a prayer of thanks to Heaven for such a miracle, but she decided that the best method of expressing her gratitude would be to accept the blessing and make the best use of it that she could manage.

She followed Mr. Darcy toward the stern, where he leaned casually next to an empty anchor point for some kind of tow line. "Here," he murmured, his eyes sweeping the docks around them under the shadow of Cleft Chin's hat. Lizzy moved beside him, as bold as any other seaman onboard, and began tying the end of the coil she carried to the anchor point. Her hands were shaking from their near miss, but she kept going, and only a few seconds later, she dropped the rest of the rope into the water where the ship was nearly bumping another segment of pier.

She leaned back against the rail, mimicking Mr. Darcy's position. "Ready."

"Go now," he whispered urgently. "No one is watching."

It took all her courage not to look carefully around for herself. It was so hard to trust their safety to him, but she let herself ignore her fear and climbed over the side. She shimmied quickly down the rope until she had moved out of view of anyone up on the pier or on deck. She hung there in the shadow of the cutter still several feet above the water, her arms already trembling with the effort, and looked up above her.

She saw Mr. Darcy's hand on the railing, and she willed him to follow, but before he could move, a voice approached. "Oy, there!"

Lizzy froze, hanging on the line like an icicle. They were discovered! She had to run! She looked down into the murky green water, newly horrified at the thought of making this attempt on her own. Was she strong enough for this? Would she be able to do it alone?

And could she bear the idea of Mr. Darcy being stuck back with these rotten men? What would they do to him? How would they punish him for helping her escape?

"What?" Mr. Darcy replied gruffly.

This was it. This was her last chance. She had to go now!

But she could not leave without knowing his fate. Her own safety be hanged!

"Ye're one of Smythe's men? Ain't ya supposed ta be meetin' with him over there?"

"I am keeping watch until we set sail. The master is always careful, even to the very last moment."

"Keepin' watch for what? Pursuers? Or an escape?" The man laughed in a raspy voice, ending with a sharp cough. "None of these 'gentle people' 'ave ever even made an attempt, 'ave they? They always shuffle on board, as docile and frightened as lambs about ta be sheered, sit quietly in the 'old, and emerge a little green and willing to pay whatever amount Lord Smythe chooses. 'e's always sendin' 'em back a few days later, their estates quite a bit poorer and their determination ta never make a wager agin' a flaming fire inside 'em. It's practically a Christian service!"

"His planning is admirable," Mr. Darcy replied thoughtfully.

"Ay, although I must say I was surprised to see a woman come aboard. 'e always keeps them this side of the channel, don't he? For their own safety, 'e always said. Mayhap 'e's plannin' to keep this one for 'imself?"

"She is a lively one," Mr. Darcy said stiffly, "and he seems to have taken a liking to her."

"Well, good for 'im, I say. She could do much worse. 'e's an excellent fellow—for a con-man." The sailor laughed again, and Mr. Darcy joined him.

Lizzy's arms were shaking, despite having wrapped her legs in the rope to lend some support. She would not be able to hold much longer.

"Come to that, are you new with Lord Smythe? I ain't never seen you onboard before."

"Well, I, uh…"

"Striker! To your post!" a voice called from the prow. "Ya lazy dog!"

"G'day to ya," Striker said hurriedly.

Suddenly Mr. Darcy was sliding down the rope above her. Lizzy went the rest of the way in seconds, ignoring the burning of her palms as she slipped too quickly, sliding into the cold, briny water with barely a splash. She gasped at the chill, just managing to keep her head above water. She swam back into the shadows under the pier, trying not to think of the muck and grime floating in the flotsam around her, and she heard Mr. Darcy splashing after her. She made it to a barnacle-covered post well-hidden under the wooden planks, and Mr. Darcy came up beside her, both of them grasping the pillar.

"Why did you not go when you heard the man's voice?" he hissed, his eyes blazing. "All he would have had to do was glance down over the side!"

"I could not. I could not just abandon you!" A wave rolled in and back out, buffeting her hip and shoulder against the pillar. She grimaced and held on tighter.

"Saving yourself is not abandoning me! I told you that…"

"I make my own decisions, sir, regardless of any advice you offer. I found, when the moment came, that I would rather remain in peril than spend some unknown period waiting in safety to know whether you were well!"

"But I am much more likely to be in peril if you remain than if I am captive alone. Can you not see that?"

"Of course I can!" she spat, ignoring the shiver that had just brushed up from her icy limbs as the force of another wave smacked her ankles into the post. She held on tighter, or as tightly as possible given her failing strength. "It makes perfect, logical sense. But in the moment, I found that logic was irrelevant. I wanted to remain with you! Does it have to make sense?"

"I do not understand how you can so easily accept your own lack of wisdom when it comes to your personal safety. If you would just…Agh!"

His words were cut off when the largest wave yet rolled up and crashed over both their heads. They came up spluttering and coughing, and Lizzy felt Mr. Darcy's hand on her back.

"Perhaps, sir," Lizzy wheezed, "we should choose another location in which to continue this argument."

She shivered again, and he moved closer, wrapping his free arm around her shoulders. She felt no warmth from him in the frigid water, but the gesture cooled the last of her ire, and she laid her head against his shoulder for a moment before pushing away from the pillar, beginning to swim from post to post along the dock, trying to get as far from the packet as she could.

She and Jane had learned to swim years before in the small pond near the edge of her father's estate, but she was realizing quickly that such limited experience had not prepared her for swimming in the sea. The tide seemed to be turning, but there were many conflicting waves from various incoming and outgoing vessels, and it was difficult to predict the direction of the next swell. Her already weary arms were losing energy quickly. The ill-fitting boots she wore dragged at her feet, and she was grateful the posts were so close to one another, although all too often she crashed into the posts rather than reaching for them, draining her further.

She glanced over her shoulder and paused, treading water, as Lord Smythe's packet began to move more definitely away from the pier. Mr. Darcy stopped beside her, and they watched in silence as the boat pulled into the open water at the center of the harbor. Finally she turned away and half-swam, half-floated the last few lengths to a long ladder hung on the back side of the very last, mostly empty pier.

She reached for the bottom rung in relief, but her numbed hand slipped from the slat instead of gripping it. Fear spiked through her, as chilling as the icy water. What if, after all of this, she was too weak to climb out? The idea would have been laughable had the fatigue in her limbs not felt so glaringly real.

She reached out again, using all her will to command her frozen fingers to grip the slat. She did the same with the other, then slid each leaden leg until her feet landed on the slippery, submerged rungs. She leaned her forehead against her forearm and closed her eyes. _Help me, God, to make it up this ladder. Please, I ask no more. Just help us both up the ladder._

"Go up."

Lizzy opened her eyes and gazed at Mr. Darcy in desperation. "I cannot raise myself. I am too cold and weak."

"No, you are not. You are fine. Go up the ladder."

She glared at him. She had expected some sympathy, perhaps even a kiss of encouragement to her forehead. "I cannot."

"Of course you can. Just go."

"What do you mean? I already told you I am not strong enough." She was panicking, her breath coming shallowly and too fast, and now she felt lightheaded.

He swam behind her and pressed his chest against her back, placing his hands beside hers on the rungs and his feet just below hers. "You have no other choice. Therefore, you are strong enough. Now, stop arguing with me and move!"

His words spurred her, as much through anger as a desire to live up to his expectations, and she managed very slowly, rung by rung, to raise herself up the side of the pier. He mirrored every movement, coming up just below her, and at his insistence, as they neared the top, she moved off slightly to the side so that he could come up beside her and look out over the planks.

There was a team of men loading a small fishing vessel, the only one moored anywhere near.

"We ought to wait until they disperse," Mr. Darcy began. Then he looked over at her shivering form and down at his own shaking limbs and sighed. "But we cannot wait."

He climbed onto the dock and bent back over to help her up. He released her hand as soon as he finished, and she was surprised by it until she remembered that she was still dressed as a man. Good grief! How was she supposed to walk like a man when her legs were shaking so much she could barely walk at all?

They neared the group on the pier, who noticed them with no little surprise.

"Oy, there, what 'appened ta you?"

"You two all right?"

"D'ya fall in?"

Lizzy's fuzzy mind whirled, but she thought of no reasonable explanation. Thankfully, Mr. Darcy was less addled than she.

"We were right fools," he said, with a slight shift of accent and a sheepish grin. "We made a bit of a wager about the minute the Maid Lucy would dock," he said, motioning toward another packet that had just made it in before the tide turned. It had numerous passengers waiting on deck, obviously impatient to reach land. The name _Maid Lucy_ was painted on its side in bold script. "Our discussion grew a bit hot, and the lad here took a fist to me face, so I answered in kind, and before we knew it, we were washing in wit' the tide."

Lizzy kept her head down, her cap low over her eyes, but she could hear the men laughing cheerfully. Mr. Darcy joined them, and she tried to shrug and look sullen, the way she imagined such a foolish young man would.

"The lad will go back to his ship, but is there an inn nearby where I can go to get changed before the coach leaves going south?"

"Aye," one of the men said, still chuckling. "The Bulldog is the nearest honest place, and the innkeeper will let rooms by the hour if you have need. Go straight up the main road and turn left your first chance."

"Thank 'ee kindly. G'day to ya."

Mr. Darcy strode past them, Lizzy following in his wake until there was enough room for them to walk abreast. "We must find a change of clothes," he said, leaning down toward her and speaking quickly. "We are too noticeable as we are."

"Obviously," she replied through chattering teeth. She also needed to sit down and get warm, but she thought it superfluous to mention since his concerned glances made it clear he already knew.

They reached the main length of the dock and began to move through the midday crush into the narrow street ahead. It was hugged by dingy buildings that smelled strongly of damp, mostly shipmaster and coach offices.

"We could break into someone's luggage while no one is watching," Lizzy whispered, peering around for an unattended trunk. But travelers and drivers were especially vigilant in any place as busy as this one, and she saw no simple possibilities. Then she looked up, wondering where the nearest housing could be found. "Or we could pilfer something from a friendly clothesline. Or I suppose…"

"Perhaps this will serve better," Mr. Darcy said drily, turning aside and leading her toward an unprepossessing shop under a sign with a painting of a grinning sailor.

Not less than fifteen minutes later, Lizzy and Mr. Darcy left the shop two guineas poorer (having been outrageously taken advantage of by the shrewd shopkeeper) but in dry, clean, new shirts, trousers, jackets, and caps. Only their footwear remained the same, as they had not wished to deplete their funds too far. Mr. Darcy's boots were well-enough hidden by the wide workman's trousers that their quality was not immediately obvious.

Lizzy was still shivering, and she very much wished for dry feet, but at least they were no longer so conspicuous.

"And now we must get warm," Mr. Darcy said, leading them around the corner and a ways down the narrow side-street toward the sign for The Bulldog.

Lizzy did not argue, her eyes already fixed on the entrance to the tall, thin building.

"What are we to do once we have…?" Lizzy's voice trailed off as her ears caught the sound of sharp footsteps on the wooden boardwalk they now traversed. She looked over her shoulder just in time to catch her breath before Scissors, a look of incredulity and anger on his face, reached out and grabbed her arm, jerking her to a stop.

How had they not noticed that at least one of Lord Geoffrey's fellows had been left behind? Lizzy was too surprised to do more than cry out sharply.

"How did you get off the boat?" he hissed, jerking her back against him. "I was watching from the dock, and I noticed nothing amiss. I did not see you until you left the shop back there."

"More fool you," she answered through clenched teeth. She attempted to reach out and clasp her arms around the roof pillar nearest her, but Scissors wrenched her back and wrapped an arm around both her arms and her chest. She stilled as she felt something sharp press into the flesh near her spine.

Her eyes locked on Mr. Darcy, who had spun at the sound of her cry and was now standing in the center of the walkway, staring at the man with desperate anger.

"You are both half-wits if you believe they will not return for you immediately upon discovering your absence," Scissors said, his tone scathing. "You are worth too much to allow your escape."

"They will not notice we are missing for some time, perhaps a few hours," Mr. Darcy answered, inching closer although his hands were raised and open in front of him. "Long enough, at least, that they will be unable to return until tomorrow at the earliest. You are alone here. How do you imagine you will keep us captive?"

"Reg is just at the other end of the dock. All we must do is walk back down, which you will do quietly if you do not want your dear lady to be skewered on my blade. Move now, and I will not have to hurt her."

Mr. Darcy paused, his eyes roving the street in hope of finding aid, but as far as Lizzy could see, this side-street was conspicuously empty. Even worse, they were standing on a covered section of walkway against a boarded-up shop, well shadowed and out of sight. His gaze grew more desperate, and she could sense his fear of capitulation. They had been so close to escaping! It was galling to face returning to imprisonment.

Then, for just a moment, Lizzy saw relief flash in his eyes before he returned the anxious expression to his face. "Very well," he said. "Just… just please do not harm her."

Lizzy heard Scissors chuckle in his throat, already celebrating this victory. "Then move quickly," he spat, his tone authoritative and confident. "And I will consider asking Lord Geoff to be merciful, though I doubt I will be successful. Reg is not going to like this little development—not at all."

"Perhaps it is us you will have to beg for mercy," said a familiar voice from behind Scissors, "though it will need to be for yourself and no one else."

Scissors moved to turn, trying to take Lizzy with him, but he was thrown sideways, bowled over by a man who may as well have been the huge bulldog from the inn's sign. Scissors' hands were ripped from her, but her rubbery limbs still could not withstand the mild impact of his movement, and she toppled sideways, smashing her shoulder into the thick post she had tried to reach before.

Mr. Darcy was there in a moment, on his knees and gathering her into his arms even as the grunts and growls of a scuffle sounded out of her sight. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"My shoulder," she gasped, bracing her arm against her side with her other hand.

He settled her back against the pillar, hovering worriedly. "Can you move it?"

"Give me a moment. I am certain I shall be all right soon."

She forced herself to focus on the men who were now some feet down from them. Two men in clothes very similar to her own were hanging a semi-conscious Scissors between them. One of Scissors' eyes was ringed red, and she was certain it would soon be swollen shut, a nice accompaniment to the bruising that would soon be appearing on his cheek and jaw.

She let out a relieved breath before looking up at the two men. The giant was unfamiliar to her. He was sandy-haired with a patch over his left eye, and his round, cheerful face was apologetic as he gazed at her. But the other man…

"Colonel!" she laughed, ignoring the sharp pain the movement inspired in her shoulder. "You may be the most beautiful sight I have ever seen!"

Colonel Fitzwilliam, looking only slightly disheveled from the fight, grinned at her in his old way, although she knew the expression was not as careless as it had been when she had seen him last. His eyes were troubled as he looked her over. "I wish I could say the same, my dear Miss Bennet, but I must say you are not quite looking your best."

"Fitzwilliam," Mr. Darcy chided impatiently, "for goodness sake, man, after all she has been through…"

"No, no," Lizzy interrupted, leaning her head back against the post and closing her eyes—she was perfectly unable to keep them open any longer. "Honesty is best to welcome, even when it is painful to accept. I admit that I have felt better."

"Forgive me for hurting you, miss," the other man said in a deep, rumbling voice. "I never meant for you to fall."

"'Tis quite all right," she replied. "It is worth any physical pain to remain free from Lord Geoffrey and his henchmen. And the way Scissors looks now," she added, cracking one eye open, "makes me feels a far sight better."

"Miss Bennet," the colonel chuckled, "you have always been charming, but your ability to make light of this particular situation is perfectly adorable. Perhaps I shall have to overcome my qualms and marry you after all."

Lizzy's eyes popped open, and she hissed as Mr. Darcy's hands, which had been working to gently slide her jacket off her shoulder, convulsively closed on her upper arm. He released her instantly, nearly tipping over in his haste. "Forgive me," he muttered. "I… overbalanced."

He returned to his task but stopped again as a shudder wracked her frame. The excitement and fear had warmed her for a moment, but the return to relative safety had allowed the cold to seep back in, and she tried to stifle a sob as the sharp movement caused the pain in her shoulder to flash anew.

"She is cold and now injured," Mr. Darcy said his cousin. "We must get her inside in front of a fire."

"Of course. Cardon? Can you take care of this hindrance?" the colonel asked, gesturing to the man they supported between them. "He cannot be allowed to get word to his companions."

"'Twill be simple enough. I am good friends with the local magistrate," Mr. Cardon answered, grinning widely. "We shall find this fellow—Scissors, did you call him?—somewhere cozy to recuperate for a few days… or weeks."

"You are a good friend," the colonel said, transferring Scissors's weight around until he was slung heavily over the big man's shoulder. "You have my enduring gratitude."

"And ours as well, Cardon," Mr. Darcy said, rising to shake the man's hand. All Lizzy could do was offer a faint smile.

"A pleasure to serve. I've been spoiling for a brawl for months anyway—just ask my wife. If you need any more help, you'll let me know, will you not, Colonel?"

"Undoubtedly," the colonel laughed. They exchanged farewells and the man, Cardon, turned away, easily carrying the unconscious man down the street. He nodded before disappearing around a corner at the far end.

The colonel and Mr. Darcy assisted Lizzy to her feet gently, supporting her between them much as Scissors had been a moment before. She moved gingerly, leaning mostly on the colonel's arm in order to keep from jostling her injured shoulder against Mr. Darcy's. It felt odd to be relying on someone else suddenly, almost like a betrayal.

"Colonel," she asked tiredly, "however did you find us?"

"No, no, Miss Bennet," he teased. "First we will get you some tea, a roaring fire, some half-dozen cozy blankets, and a doctor. Then I will hear an excellently detailed and tedious account of your adventures from Darcy. And _then_ I will explain my presence and all that has happened in Kent since you were removed."

"You are horribly cruel," she replied. Well, that was what she attempted to say, but the words came out in a muddle, and she realized that the world had grown oddly dark. Oh, that was because she had closed her eyes again. She dragged another foot forward, but it did not quite respond as it should, and she knocked her toes against a step.

"Miss Bennet? Miss Bennet!" The distress in Mr. Darcy's voice was the last thing she noticed before she drifted into blessed blackness.

* * *

"Are you certain she shall be all right?" Darcy asked the hunched little man again. Darcy was still hovering uselessly over the mattress on which Miss Bennet lay sleeping.

"As I have already told you," Dr. Wiggin pointed out less patiently than the first two times, "her arm is severely bruised but not broken, and the surface wound is small and carefully dressed. She has regained her color and her skin is warm again to the touch. The periodic shivers will stop in another hour or so as her system accepts that she is no longer too cold. She is resting, which is the best remedy I can recommend for her fatigue. She will be just fine!" He picked up his bag and moved toward the door, his coat already buttoned.

Darcy nodded and stood stiffly, his knees cracking. It had been wise to move the ticking from the inn's bed to the floor closer to the fire, but it was not terribly comfortable for any of Miss Bennet's caretakers. Darcy looked nearly as weak and exhausted as Miss Bennet had been. "Very well. Thank you very much for your assistance. Please remember not to speak of us if anyone comes asking." He crossed to the doctor and handed him a few coins.

Dr. Wiggin pocketed the payment. "Yes, yes. I can spot trouble as well as the next person, and I shall keep my nose out of it. I recommend that you yourself get some rest now, young man, as your sister is doing. Good day." He bowed then walked out, pulling the door firmly shut.

"He is correct," Fitzwilliam said from his seat on a short bench under the window. He had been leaning back and closing his eyes, attempting to will away the itching under his eyelids that always told him he was near to dropping again himself. A few hours of sleep this morning had not been enough. "You look done in."

"I have not gone swimming for ages, especially not in the sea. I had forgotten how difficult it was. I am still amazed that she made it at all, but she did, only giving out at the very end." His eyes rested on Miss Bennet's still form, and he knelt back at her side. His gaze was adoring, nearly reverential.

"She is an impressive young lady," Fitzwilliam said thoughtfully, feeling rather mischievous. "I suspect she could handle much trouble and travail without faltering. That seems a good quality for an officer's wife, does it not?"

Darcy tensed and stared up at him, eyes burning. "What did you mean earlier, when you referred to overcoming your qualms in order to marry her?"

Fitzwilliam chuckled, shaking his head. "Miss Bennet and I had a very frank discussion on the morning before you were taken. We had been enjoying one another's company so much that I felt it only right to explain my rather difficult financial situation. I had no desire for her to get the wrong idea about my intentions, no matter how fond I have grown of her. But I am uncertain now. For a lady such as this, might it be worthwhile to make a few sacrifices? Perhaps she could be happy living on only an officer's income."

Darcy continued to stare at him with no expression, but Fitzwilliam could feel the rage, jealousy, and confusion rolling off him in violent waves. Darcy's words were stiff as he asked, "Have you some idea of her harboring feelings for you?"

"I know that we get along well, and she is always most glad to see me. I think she likes me very much, and that is a fine place to begin, is it not?" Fitzwilliam put on a worried look. "And besides, if even a whiff of this little escapade gets out, her reputation will be as good as ruined, and as she is just an innocent caught up in all this, it would only be right for one of us to offer for her. Why should it not be me?"

"Because you are-" Darcy cut off his outburst, looking as red in the face as if he were being strangled.

"Because I am what?" Fitzwilliam asked, his voice direct now and openly challenging.

Darcy drew in a few deep breaths, and after a moment, he looked down at the lady before him. He reached out and tenderly brushed a loose lock of hair off Miss Bennet's forehead. His fingers lingered on her cheek.

"Because I am not the one in love with her," Fitzwilliam supplied.

"Would you offer for her, Fitz, if it came to it?" Darcy asked quietly, his eyes still wandering Miss Bennet's peaceful visage.

"Of course not," he laughed, horrified. "I refuse to marry the woman with whom _you_ are in love."

"But if she had to be married, for her own sake, and she preferred you, would you do it? I could provide you with some kind of stipend—in secret, of course—if you found your funds were not enough to keep her in appropriate comfort. I do not think she would ask for much…"

"Darcy!" Fitzwilliam cried, dropping his feet on the floor and staring at his cousin. "I was only teasing you, man. I was mostly certain you had fallen for the girl, but I was just making sure. I would not really…"

"It is not a matter of loyalty, Fitz. Or rather, perhaps it is. If she needed assistance, and you were the only one able to offer it, would you do it? You said yourself that the two of you get along well. Perhaps affection would grow, as it so often does." He choked a bit on the last part but pushed through regardless.

"Why would such an arrangement be necessary?" Fitzwilliam was completely befuddled. "Is there some impediment to her marrying you?" He had a sudden thought, and he could not dampen the severity of his tone as he asked, "Is it her connections and status? You love her, but not enough to make her an honorable woman? I suppose I should not be surprised after you proposed a clandestine arrangement to her at Rosings! But what has changed now to make her reputation of such import to you?"

Darcy finally looked up, frowning in confusion. "Clandestine arrangement? Of what are you speaking?"

Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes. "You were not just stopping into the parsonage the night you were abducted in order to borrow a cup of sugar, Darcy. It became quite obvious to me, as I considered it, that you were harboring significant interest in our dear Miss Bennet, and the only possibility was that you had hoped to convince her to accept your _attentions_ before leaving for London. I know not what sort of arrangement you proposed, but…"

Fitzwilliam's speech was stopped cold by the harsh and somewhat hysterical bark of laughter that had just issued from his normally staid and controlled cousin. "You thought I was there to seduce her?"

"Well," Fitzwilliam replied, feeling defensive after the scorn in Darcy's tone, "what else was I to think?"

"Fitz, you of all people in the world know I am not the sort of man to seek that kind of connection to a woman. I have never kept a mistress, and nor shall I ever! I resent that you came to any such conclusion."

"Well, what else was I to think? Why were you there, then?"

Darcy's face lost all of its humor, and he gazed back down at Miss Bennet's face. "I asked her to marry me."

"You what?" Fitzwilliam thundered, jumping to his feet. Darcy pointed severely at Miss Bennet and made a hushing gesture, and the rest of Fitzwilliam's words came out in a strangled whisper. "What could you possibly have been thinking? Love is all well and good, Darce, but she is outrageously beneath your expectations. Society would be scandalized. Even I know that her connections are abysmal, and she comes with no title or properties. Not even a dowry worth mentioning! Father would never forgive you, and nor would Lady Catherine!"

"Yes, I know," Darcy answered mildly. "I know all of that, although the longer I have considered it, the more I have come to the conclusion that little of that actually matters. Society would certainly be scandalized—for a fortnight or so. Then they would move on to another more juicy scandal on which to gnaw. Miss Bennet is the daughter of a landed gentleman, and that is a place to start. Her wit, intelligence, elegance, and charm would do the rest, and by the time Georgiana is ready for her debut, Elizabeth would be accepted.

"I care nothing whatsoever for Lady Catherine's opinion, and as for your father, the Earl, I care very little what that old windbag thinks anymore either. No one short of royalty would please him, and since I have no interest in marrying any of the royalty to whom I have been introduced, it is a hopeless cause. I may as well please myself."

Fitzwilliam had to chuckle a bit at Darcy's insult against his father. He was right, obviously. The man really was little more than an old windbag—all bluster and no bite. He was set in his ways and had a flash temper, but he had very little influence left. Andrew, Fitzwilliam's elder brother, was functioning as the head of the family more and more these days, and he would be much more open-minded regarding Darcy's future bride.

"Very well," Fitzwilliam said slowly. "Then if you have, regardless of all possible objections, become engaged to Miss Bennet, why on earth would you ask me to marry her instead of you? Do you feel your life is in danger?"

"I suppose that is possible now," Darcy answered musingly, rubbing at the three-days growth of beard on his chin. "We cannot predict what retribution that fellow and his companions may exact. But no, that is not my reasoning. You see, Miss Bennet refused me."

It took several seconds for Fitzwilliam to fully comprehend his words, and once he had, he was too shocked to speak. Finally, with some effort, he choked out, "She… she what?"

Darcy laughed again, this time with some measure of bitterness. "Yes, that was my reaction as well."

"But why?"

Never in his wildest dreams had Fitzwilliam thought it possible that once Darcy actually decided to choose a bride, any woman would be capable of denying him. He was everything a woman wanted, was he not? Wealthy? Handsome? Of the right age and stability? Honest? Loyal? Of long and distinguished lineage? Well-educated?

"She does not particularly like me."

Fitzwilliam sat back as if he had received a physical blow.

"In fact, she despises me profoundly."

Fitzwilliam began to laugh.

It started quietly, a burble in his chest that he knew he ought to contain but could not. It grew then into a long, drawn out chuckle, and from there it became perfectly unruly, until he was reduced to knee-slapping and braying like a donkey.

Finally, after some time, he managed to catch his breath, and he looked up at his cousin and dearest friend as he wiped tears from his eyes. Darcy was staring at him with a dark expression.

"I am sorry, old man, but you took me by surprise, and I am too tired to help myself. She…" he chuckled again, "she does not like you? With all your qualifications, all your money and importance, she still disliked you enough to refuse you? It is just… just too unbelievable!"

"Yes," Darcy remarked sourly.

"What in Heaven's name did you do to so completely raise her ire?"

Darcy sighed, leaning his back against the hearth and closing his eyes. "It is a long story. Have we nothing of greater import to discuss?"

"We have plenty of time," Fitzwilliam said, making a show of settling into his seat more comfortably and motioning toward the sleeping damsel on the floor. "She must rest for a few hours before she will be well enough to travel. That packet on which they attempted to ship you out will not be able to turn around because of the mail they carry, and the tide will not be favorable for landing here again until tomorrow afternoon, even if they forced the issue. Cardon is taking care of the man who saw you, and his compatriot will be left adrift. We have time enough for your story."

And so Darcy began to speak, beginning with the tale of their first introduction and continuing all the way to the interruption of his proposal. Fitzwilliam interjected as little as possible, sometimes unable to resist identifying Darcy's moments of stupidity even though he already seemed painfully aware of them, and once he had finished, they sat in thoughtful silence, listening to Miss Bennet's deep, even breathing.

"Darcy, I have no idea what to say. I am entirely at a loss."

"If only I were at a loss," he said morosely, having turned at some point to gaze into the flames. "Unfortunately, I have had ample time to think over the past three days, and my misbehaviors and ill-judgment have become more and more obvious to me every moment. How I ever imagined…" He shook his head. "I have made it the study of my life to be a virtuous, upstanding man, a man of worth and integrity who has earned and treats with respect the status he has attained in the world. But how is it that it has not been made clear to me until now, at the age of eight-and-twenty, that I am lacking in everything that really matters? I give to the poor, but I am ungenerous with those of my own station. I am scrupulously honest, but I act and speak without compassion. I aspire to a virtuous life, and yet I treat those around me with contempt and judge them harshly for their imperfections. I am a hypocrite, Fitz!"

"True."

Darcy looked up at him, glaring sharply.

"What?" Fitzwilliam asked, shrugging. "I am agreeing with you."

Darcy groaned and leaned his head back against the hearth.

"Now, what are you going to do about it?"

"What can I do?" Darcy cried. "It seems a hopeless business."

"You do not truly feel that way, or these realizations would not still be troubling you so. You have seen your errors, and now it is time to act. What are you going to do?"

"Try to be a better man, I suppose," he said slowly. "In every way I can."

"I think that is the best place to start." Fitzwilliam clapped a hand on his thigh to emphasize. "And what shall you do about Miss Bennet? Shall you give her up?"

"No," he breathed, gazing at her rather fiercely. "I believe… that is, I would like to think there is still some hope."

"After everything you told me, after how harshly she rejected you, you still believe you have a chance with her?"

"Three days ago, I would have said no. Had I been able to walk out of the Collins's parlor as I intended to do, repair to Rosings and write her a letter of explanation, deliver it on the morrow and depart for London, I would have had no illusions regarding the possibility of winning her. I probably would never have seen her again. But now…"

"Now?"

"Now we have spent three days together, Fitz, swept up in an experience nothing in the courting rituals of polite society could have approximated. We have spent almost every waking moment together, and we have never been more than twenty yards apart. We relied on one another, not only for company but for security and confidence. The night we were taken, I suspect it was difficult for her to decide whether she would rather remain in my company or run off with our abductors. Yet this afternoon, when a situation arose that momentarily imperiled my escape, and against my express wish that she should save herself and run to London, she stayed behind and waited for me to join her. She said she would rather remain in my company than be safe."

Fitzwilliam raised his eyebrows, struck by the significance of his statement. "You think she has developed feelings for you?"

"I do not know," he sighed. "It is hard to trust my own judgment now with regards to her—I was so bloody foolish before."

They sat in silence for some moments, deep in thought.

"She asked me to sleep beside her last night."

"She did not!"

Darcy nodded. "It was so cold, and she was still shivering under all the blankets, unable to truly rest. She was moaning and crying out in her sleep. I tried to refuse her, but she literally dragged me beside her."

"Poor man." Fitzwilliam's sarcasm was thick.

"Poor man, indeed," Darcy laughed as if in pain. "Fitz, I woke with her in my arms this morning. How am I to ever sleep alone again?"

More silence, then, "She kissed me before we left the boat. She said it was for luck."

"Oh, Darcy," Fitzwilliam groaned. "Clearly the lady has experienced a change of heart. I can hardly believe you are still worried about it."

"But what if it is only temporary? What if her emotions have been affected by the direness of our circumstances? How would I survive if I were to secure her hand now only to watch her feelings change again once we are safe and she has been returned home?"

"Heavens, I do not know!" Fitzwilliam yelled, covering his ears with his hands. "I only know I can bear no more. Your romantic ups and downs are more than I can absorb, let alone solve."

"It is no wonder I have always avoided women as a rule," Darcy chuckled harshly. "They certainly complicate one's life unnecessarily." Then his face softened, and his eyes caught on the young lady at his feet. "Though if I could win her, it would be worth all the suffering."

"Women certainly do complicate things," Fitzwilliam agreed, his mind flashing to a lady back in Kent, one he feared could complicate his life immensely if he allowed it. He shook his head to clear it and frowned down sternly at Darcy. "But now I believe it is time to discuss matters of somewhat more immediate import. Tell me everything that has occurred in the last three days, everything you can remember, and then I will relate all I have gleaned, much of which, I fear, will not be pleasant either."


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thanks again for all the support for this story. I'm uploading chapters six and seven today, mostly because my goal is to have this story finished by the end of January, but also because together they function as a sort of breather before we ramp up again for the ending. Also, on a side note, can I just express my gratitude for those of you who catch the details I miss? Professional authors have teams of editors, including some who focus solely on consistency within the text, but it is pretty tough to notice all of that myself. So thanks for doing what I can't._

 _Disclaimer: As one persnickety reviewer (you know who you are-you made me laugh) pointed out, if I were Jane Austen, I would have referred to her as Elizabeth instead of Lizzy in the narration._

 _Chapter Six_

Lizzy gazed out the carriage window as she leaned against the door, her eyes catching listlessly on each lighted lamppost as they passed, and tried not to focus on the pounding in her head or the relentless ache in her shoulder. Her memories of the last two days were jumbled and hazy: a long time in a quiet, plain room; Mr. Darcy's and the colonel's faces hovering worriedly over her and attempting to speak soothing words; entering a post coach over and over; and the constant, sharp discomfort in her shoulder along with dull soreness everywhere else. She also seemed to remember being repeatedly convinced to take a few swallows from a flask in Mr. Darcy's jacket, which was always followed by long periods of darkness.

Now, though, it had been hours since her last drink, and although her pain had grown severe almost to the point of flaming, her mind was finally beginning to clear. The lampposts meant they were entering London.

She recalled having attempted, during her more lucid moments the previous day, to question her two companions. They had spoken of Lady Catherine's connection to Lord Geoffrey Smythe, the purported lord of an imaginary earldom called Aberforth. They had explained why they were going to London rather than returning to Kent, something about being reluctant to return her to her family before knowing whether Lord Smythe would make an attempt to recapture them. They had told her that they had been forced to remain in hiding in Dover through Sunday, as no post would travel until Monday morning. There had been something mentioned, too, about a plan to approach an old connection of Mr. Darcy's for tonight's shelter rather than risking being noticed at another inn.

That was, however, essentially all she remembered, and she knew she had the laudanum in Mr. Darcy's flask to thank for her confusion. She could not blame the gentlemen for continuing to administer it, given that spending an entire day having her injury jostled in a post coach would have bordered on nightmarish without it, but she knew they were close to their destination now, and she was ready for her mind to clear.

Lizzy had never handled laudanum well, but as far as she knew, she had not begun moaning or talking in her sleep, as she had during her childhood. She was fairly certain she had spent most of the day at the inn and today's carriage ride dozing or staring blankly at the wall, only speaking when they asked her a question.

That was a miracle for which she was immensely thankful now that the effects of the laudanum were finally wearing off, since the most likely thing to emerge from her mouth would have been a request for Mr. Darcy to sit by her. He had seemed very far away all day on the opposite bench of the carriage.

She would never have been able to look him in the eye again, however, if she had spoken the words aloud.

She perked up slightly as the roads upon which they traveled became more familiar, and after several minutes, as they finished crossing a bridge she recognized, she scooted gingerly to the other end of her bench and looked out the opposite window.

"Is something amiss, Miss Bennet?" Mr. Darcy asked, watching her with concern. She had felt his eyes on her for most of the trip, but it had never been with the friendly warmth to which she had grown so attached. He was tense and worried, and as he watched her, the furrow in his brow never smoothed, not even for a moment.

"No, sir. 'Tis only that…" She trailed off, and after another moment, the familiar sight of Number Eighty-Six Gracechurch Street greeted her. Despite the lateness of the hour, the top story of the narrow house was entirely lit, indicating that her loved ones had probably just returned from an evening's engagement. She felt both immensely comforted by her aunt and uncle's nearness, not to mention her own dear Jane's, and deeply bereft by her inability to go to them.

That, it would seem, was another thing she could recall from earlier discussions. They would not, as yet, even contact their families, not until they decided how to do so without putting them in harm's way. They had no way to know whether Lord Geoffrey would approach her father or Miss Darcy with ransom demands, but if their families had no idea where Lizzy and Mr. Darcy were hiding, they might be safer. They hoped.

And besides, she realized with equal parts sorrow and relief, their families did not even know they were missing yet. Everything, according to the colonel, had been kept a secret for the sake of both Lady Catherine's reputation and Lizzy's own.

But oh, how she longed suddenly to feel her father's arms around her. Were he beside her now, he would put his arm around her shoulders carefully and, with a bland expression, say something that would make her laugh. _Well, my dear Lizzy, things could always be worse. Just imagine if you had been kidnapped with Lydia as your companion._

Mr. Darcy knelt down on the carriage floor and peered out the window, his eyes darting anxiously. "What is wrong? Did you see someone following us?"

"Nothing is wrong, sir," she assured him. She wanted to put her hand on his shoulder, to squeeze it comfortingly, but something about Colonel Fitzwilliam's presence and watchful gaze dampened all the closeness she had felt to Mr. Darcy only two mornings before. "That is my uncle's house. I was surprised to realize we were in Cheapside, but I suppose it makes sense."

"It looks to be a very comfortable home," he said with some surprise. "What does your uncle do?"

Lizzy smiled a little to herself, more pleased than she ought to be by his approval. "My uncle is in trade, sir. He owns a warehouse further down that road, and he has had some significant success in the textiles market, as a broker for foreign materials and products."

"That can be quite lucrative," Colonel Fitzwilliam offered, now leaning forward to catch a glimpse of the row of townhouses. "If he has a head for business, he could do very well in that line. My brother has been looking into several companies conducting such trade, seeking good opportunities for investment."

"Uncle Gardiner is a brilliant businessman, or at least that is how he seems to me, as little as I know of all that. He is very shrewd but never mean, which means that clients and partners fear him, like him, and trust him in equal measure. And my aunt is his perfect compliment. Where he is shrewd, she is witty. Where he is cautious, she is courageous. Where he is analytical, she is spontaneous. He always says that most of his success comes at her encouragement."

"You hold them in very high esteem," Mr. Darcy said, returning to his seat across the carriage. It was so dark inside now that she could hardly see his face.

"I do. I admire both of them greatly and love them even more."

"I assume your elder sister feels the same way, since it was to them she went after…" He trailed off awkwardly, realizing he had trodden upon uncertain ground, and returned to his seat across from her.

"After her heartbreak." Lizzy was surprised at her tone as she spoke. She had thought the statement would be a barb, a stinging reminder to Mr. Darcy of his part in it, but the words came out gently, as if she feared to wound him. "Yes, our aunt has always been of great comfort to us amidst disappointment or sorrow. She is wonderfully compassionate and, at the same time, eminently sensible. How I long for some of her sense and compassion right now."

"Indeed," the colonel agreed darkly.

Mr. Darcy did not reply, and Lizzy saw that he had turned to watch out the other window. She would have given twenty pounds to know what he was thinking in that moment. He was such a mystery to her.

"You seem to be feeling a bit better," the colonel said to her, sounding as if he was trying to distract himself from his thoughts.

Just at that moment, they crossed over a deep rut in the road, and the coach jarred, sending Lizzy slamming against the spare back cushions. Normally the jolt would have barely bothered her, but her shoulder screamed in protest at the blow, and she could not contain a hiss of pain as she clutched it.

Mr. Darcy jumped across the divide between them, steadying her against a further onslaught of jerks and bumps as they traversed the rough section of road. His arm wrapped around her, bracing her shoulder and keeping her in place with his greater weight. Finally, the road seemed to smooth again, at least back to the normal shaking of a carriage, and Lizzy was able to catch her breath and relax against his shoulder.

"Perhaps more laudanum would be wise…"

"No!" she cried, shaking her head fiercely. "It dulls my mind far more than it dulls my pain. I despise the stuff, and I shall only take it again if it is forced upon me while unconscious. It is wearing off now, and although my arm aches more, my head is significantly less muddled."

"Very well," Mr. Darcy replied doubtfully, stuffing the hated flask back into his jacket pocket. "But you may wish to take some to help you sleep once we arrive."

"How much further must we go?"

"We must change to a private cab at the next stop. The man we go to see lives in Islington."

"Islington?" Lizzy asked. She had never been in the northern section of the city. "And he is a former servant of yours?"

"Yes. He worked in Pemberley's stable for sixty years." He sounded nostalgic. "He was offered the position of head groomsman five different times over the years, but he always refused, saying he had no desire to manage anyone other than himself and the horses. He taught me to ride as a lad, and to care for my mount with gentle firmness and respect."

"When he became too old to keep working," the colonel put in, "Darcy gave him not only a traditional pension but also a very generous parting gift, enough that he purchased a flat in Islington for himself and his son's family."

"It was no less than he deserved for so many years of faithful service," Mr. Darcy said almost defensively.

"I would never disagree. Tanner is the best sort of man."

Lizzy was surprised, although she knew that she ought not to be. The discovery of yet one more redeeming quality possessed by Mr. Darcy was becoming less and less remarkable. He was a generous man, at least to those he considered deserving. Why, then, had he treated Mr. Wickham so badly?

The thought of Mr. Wickham made Lizzy uncomfortable. The whole situation reflected so negatively on Mr. Darcy, displayed him in such an unquestionably abysmal light, that she could not reconcile it with the man before her now. When had she begun avoiding reminders of his failings?

Mr. Darcy seemed to suddenly realize his position, and after jerking his arm away and offering an embarrassed apology, he returned again to his seat, leaving Lizzy feeling chilled and equally uncomfortable, especially at the colonel's bemused expression.

It felt like years had passed by the time Mr. Darcy and the colonel finally helped Lizzy from the cab they had hired, and they found themselves at the end of a dark, quiet street in Islington. Her shoulder was screaming, and every other muscle in her body felt as if it might join in with shrieks at any moment. She was tired, in spite of spending most of the previous two days sleeping, and she leaned heavily against the colonel's arm as Mr. Darcy moved forward through the darkness and led them into the narrow alley behind the houses. At the third entrance, he climbed a short flight of stairs and knocked insistently on the door.

Lizzy looked around nervously, wondering how many of the neighbors would grow curious about the late-night visitors. How much was this neighborhood like her own? She knew that if her mother lived in such close quarters to her neighbors, she would be standing at the window at all hours to watch their comings and goings.

It took two more knockings before the door opened, casting the flickering light of a lamp out onto the stoop. A young man appeared, wearing a nightshirt and slippers. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Forgive me. I believed this to be the home of Isaac Tanner."

"You're here to see Grandfather?" he asked, lowering the lamp in his surprise. "Whatever for? And at this time of night?"

"I am so sorry—I know it is very late. But this is an emergency, and I seek your grandfather's help. Is he at home?"

"Aye. Aye. Wait here while I wake him."

The man began to close the door, but Mr. Darcy stopped him, motioning toward Lizzy. "Please, may we wait inside? Or at least the young… lad? He is injured and cold."

The young man's eyes squinted as he looked into the darkness toward Lizzy and the colonel. She had not realized she was shivering so hard, but now that Mr. Darcy had pointed it out, the cold night air seemed to bite at her.

"I… Well, I suppose so. But just the boy. I'll go…"

"What is it, Jacob?" asked a feminine voice inside. A head poked out the door, the lace on the edges of her cap bobbing with her sharp, eager movements.

He had only made it through half of an explanation before she gasped and darted out the door, running down the steps toward Lizzy. "Oh! Of course you must come in! All of you! You poor boy!"

She hustled and fussed all three of them inside, ignoring the young man's protests about safety and caution, and within only a few moments, they were seated in a small parlor. The man Jacob was muttering as he laid a fire, and the woman, also quite young in the light of the few candles, was fluttering in and out of the room, wrapping a blanket around Lizzy's shoulders and promising tea in a few moments then disappearing down a back hallway.

The parlor was small and not nearly as elegant as her uncle's home in Cheapside, but it was clean, and a tied rug and a small vase full of spring blooms made it feel cheery and welcoming. Much of the furniture was old but in good repair, and the wooden chair near the fire and the rocking chair in the corner appeared quite new. Lizzy sank into the wooden chair and released a grateful sigh. It was surprisingly comfortable.

The young man finished with the fire, and as the first wave of heat washed over Lizzy's trousers, he stood and turned to them, his expression doubtful and unhappy. "Now, I don't know why you're here bothering Grandfather in the middle of the night, but he's an old man, and I know he won't appreciate…"

"Who is it what's marching in here in the dead of night to disturb me?" called a gruff voice from the back hallway. "I know of no man who might need me so much as to keep me from my bed at such an hour!"

Lizzy frowned up at Mr. Darcy, but he was watching the parlor door eagerly. The colonel was smiling, and he caught Lizzy's eye and winked.

The door slammed open, and a gaunt old man, bent with age and labor, hobbled in leaning heavily on a short cane. He was dressed in only a nightshirt and cap, and Lizzy looked away politely, covering a small smile at the sight of the young woman flitting around him, attempting to force his arms into a dressing gown.

"Who are you people?" the old man demanded, pointing a bony finger between the three of them and squinting menacingly. "And what could you possibly want of me?"

"'Tis I, Tanner," Mr. Darcy said, removing his hat and stepping quite close to the older man, even bending down so their faces were even. "Do you know anyone else bold enough to bother such a venerable fellow past midnight?"

"Young Master Darcy!" Mr. Tanner cried, his eyes widening. He reached out and grabbed Mr. Darcy's shoulder with his free hand, squeezing it. "Well, why didn't you say so?"

"Do not forget about me," the colonel laughed, stepping forward. "I knew you would not want to see Darcy without me along as well."

Mr. Tanner frowned disapprovingly toward Colonel Fitzwilliam. "You young scamp! Always around and getting the young master into trouble. I've no doubt whatever brings him here at this hour has to do with you!"

The colonel laughed and stuck his hand out, and after another moment of glowering, Mr. Tanner's face broke into a grin and he shook hands heartily, pulling the colonel into a one-armed hug.

"Now sit down, boys," Mr. Tanner commanded, "and tell me what brings you here and how a useless old man can possibly be of assistance." He motioned toward the chairs but stopped short at the sight of Lizzy. "But who is this young man?"

Lizzy realized belatedly that she should have stood at his entrance, but she found she was too weak to rise. Instead she offered a pained smile.

"That is a long story," Mr. Darcy replied, casting a concerned glance over her. "But the most urgent matter is that he is injured and exhausted. He saw a doctor and his wounded shoulder was stitched, but we have spent several hours in a carriage, and he is in quite a bit of pain. He refuses laudanum, so the only other answer is rest and warmth, but we can neither go home nor to an inn. We cannot risk being recognized. Is it possible he could rest in here for a few hours while we consult with you about our situation?"

"We can do better than that!" the young woman replied, rushing forward. "Right, Jacob?"

The young man approached more reluctantly, still eyeing all three of them with suspicion. "I suppose."

"This is Jacob Tanner, my grandson. He is apprenticed to a surgeon, one of the best in the city," Mr. Tanner explained. "He has been with him for nearly a year, and I am certain he can help your friend."

Lizzy kept her eyes down as the young Mr. Tanner knelt in front of her. "Which shoulder?"

"My right."

"Let's see then."

Lizzy pursed her lips and pulled back the blanket, raising her shirtsleeve above the area where she could feel the pulsing ache. She was surprised to see the large bandage tied around it and under her arm. She had not really considered what the doctor might have done to help her.

Jacob carefully removed the bandage, and Lizzy's eye caught on the long, swollen gash, probably three-full inches across the lower part of her shoulder. It was held together with more than a dozen black stitches, and although there was some blood on the bandage, the crusted scab along its length told her it had stopped bleeding a long time before. A dark bruise the size of her hand stretched out around the gash on all sides.

"Oh, my," said the young woman, leaning over to see. "What happened to you?"

Lizzy just shook her head, too tired to formulate an explanation.

"The stitches are tight and holding well. Assuming the doctor cleaned the wound, I would say it's best to let it alone for now. I will re-dress it tomorrow. It will be less painful once the swelling goes down." He reached out to press lightly against one of the sides.

Lizzy gasped at the sharpness of the pain, and Jacob pulled back, looking up at her face in surprise then back down the length of her arm. He stood suddenly, turning to stare at Mr. Darcy accusingly. "She's a woman!"

The young woman gasped, coming around to peer into her face. "Of course you are! How did we not see it before? Oh, you poor dear!"

"An explanation, Master Darcy?" Mr. Tanner asked, obviously displeased.

"I shall tell all, I promise," Mr. Darcy replied, unapologetic. "The disguise is quite necessary, I assure you, and I beg that, if anyone asks, you tell them that your visitors tonight were three men."

"Hmmm," Mr. Tanner replied.

"Please, she needs rest," the colonel said. "May we continue this discussion in the kitchen while she sleeps here, perhaps just on a blanket near the hearth?"

"Of course not!" the young woman protested, reaching down without a thought and helping Lizzy gingerly to her feet, supporting her with surprising strength for her small stature. "We've a perfectly good empty bedroom at the end of the hall, and she's welcome to it. Come along, dear."

A bed! The thought was blissful. She was nearly across the room, leaning heavily against the woman, before she was able to consider anything else. She stopped and looked back. "But… Mr. Darcy…"

He was watching her with a strange expression, half relief and half uncertainty. He crossed and took the hand she was holding out toward him. "You must rest. You will be safe here."

"But…" The words she wanted to say died in her mouth. _But I do not wish you to make decisions without me! I want to know what is happening! I do not wish to be so far from you! I am afraid to be alone!_ She could say none of those things, but she felt them all.

"Trust me," he said, patting her hand a little awkwardly. His eyes darted around, never meeting hers, and she noticed how closely everyone else was watching them. He released her hand and stepped back, straightening. "We can trust Tanner and his family. All will be well."

His words addressed the only issue of which she had already been certain. She knew he would not have brought them anyplace where her safety would be in question. He obviously trusted Mr. Tanner and had known him for his entire life. But the rest of the reassurance she sought was nowhere to be found. He turned away from her with a perfunctory goodnight and crossed back toward the colonel and Mr. Tanner.

She felt as if she had been slapped.

But she had no right to feel hurt, had she? She had grown used to Mr. Darcy's concern and comfort, but now that they were out of immediate danger, there was no need for it. It was reasonable that their relationship should return to greater formality.

Somehow, reason was having little effect on the burning humiliation she was feeling.

"Come along," the young woman repeated, leading her through the parlor door. "We'll find you a nice, comfortable place to rest, and you'll feel better in no time."

Lizzy nodded wordlessly, afraid that if she spoke, the tightness in her throat would choke her.

"I'm Laura, by the way," the woman said. Her tone was proud as she added, "Mrs. Laura Tanner, that is, Jacob's wife. We've been married for just a few months, and sometimes I forget. But please call me Laura."

Lizzy nodded again.

"What's your name?"

Lizzy closed her eyes, trusting Laura to lead her.

Laura did not attempt any further conversation. Instead she conducted Lizzy into a small, dark bedroom. Lizzy used the last of her energies to pull herself from Laura's hold and step toward the bed, and she was careful to fall gently onto her left shoulder before swinging her legs up and again firmly closing her eyes.

"Yes, you rest," Laura said gently. Lizzy felt a pile of thick blankets pulled over her, and she released a quiet sigh. "And sleep as long as you like. Goodnight, dear."

"Goodnight," Lizzy whispered just before she heard the bedroom door click shut.

She lay in the darkness, her muscles finally beginning to relax under the weight of the warm blankets, and refused to open her eyes. She had no wish to know where she was or whether there was any light to see the room. Instead she clenched her eyelids tightly shut and tried to keep her tears from spilling out onto her pillow.

She was tired. She needed to stop thinking, to stop feeling sorry for herself. She was in pain, she was exhausted, she was away from all her family and friends, and the person upon whose comfort she had come to rely had now made it quite clear he was giving up the role. So be it. She was strong, and she certainly did not need _Mr. Darcy_ , of all people. He was too confusing.

And if she comforted herself to sleep by conjuring up an image of him lying in a bed just across from hers, by whispering, "Goodnight, Mr. Darcy," and pretending she heard a grave _Goodnight, Miss Bennet_ , from across the aisle, no one else need ever know it.

* * *

Fitzwilliam gazed out the window, Darcy's and Tanner's words slipping around him, nearby but impossible to catch. They had been talking for hours, as was evidenced by his ability to see the outline of the doorway across the narrow alley in the purple, pre-dawn light. He rubbed his eyes and shook himself before gazing forlornly into his most recent cup of coffee. Even coffee was not going to be enough to sharpen him this morning. Once again, he was exhausted beyond reason. He had used their enforced day of rest yesterday to catch up on his sleep, but a day of rough travel followed by a night of circuitous discussion had sapped him.

He found himself smiling a little at the thought of what Mrs. Collins would say if she could see him now. He was certain she would frown disapprovingly, that little crinkle forming between her eyebrows, and say in her calm, decisive manner, "It is time for you to rest now. This will keep."

"But there is so much to do," he would argue tiredly, his head resting in his hands and lowering involuntarily toward the table before him.

"There always is," she would say with her gentle firmness. "It will all still need doing when you wake."

"No time," he would mumble.

Then he would feel her small, warm hands on his shoulders, softly kneading the muscles at the base of his neck. He would sigh and finish collapsing, his head pillowed on his arms. She would laugh in that low, melodious manner of hers and move around, taking his hands and tugging him to his feet. "Come along."

He would tease her, wrap his arms around her shoulders and pretend to fall directly asleep with his chin on her head. She would laugh again. "You are incorrigible."

She would slip out from his hold and drag him by one hand down the hallway toward a darkened bedroom. He would not resist. In the room, she would sit him on the edge of the bed and help him remove his boots and jacket before pressing against his shoulders to lay him back on the pillow. He would roll to his side, stretching his legs under the counterpane. She would pull the blanket over him and press a kiss to his cheek.

He would turn his face and catch her lips. "Stay with me, my love," he would whisper against them, reaching out for her hands.

"I cannot," she would laugh, her breath warm on his face. "There is so much to do."

He would growl at her use of his words and tug more insistently, kissing her until she melted against him. She would sigh with cheerful longsuffering before sliding in beside him, and her hand would reach up to deftly loose his cravat…

Fitzwilliam jerked up in his seat, his wide-open eyes darting from Darcy to Tanner. He knew he was blushing like a maiden, but he could not help but be horrified at where his mind had taken him. It was one thing to fantasize about a woman, but a married woman, a good and virtuous woman who was as out of his reach as a star? That was pure foolishness, torturous stupidity.

Not to mention disrespectful, being as he had no desire to seduce her like a common strumpet. Even in his errant fantasies, he always found himself picturing her as his wife, the comforts of living and working beside her as enticing in their way as his imaginings regarding their passionate marital encounters. What was it about her that he found so tempting? He hardly knew her!

And why did the idea of settling down to a quiet, civilized life, which had formerly seemed so unimpressive, fill him with a sense of longing when he pictured her as part of it?

He growled internally and refocused his temporary return of energy on the men across from him.

"You are right," Tanner said darkly, drumming his fingers against the tabletop. "Roland will be the most helpful option _if_ you can convince him to aid you. I have no doubt your money will be enticing, but I cannot vouch for his trustworthiness. My son will happily betray you if he finds it to his advantage."

"I recognize the risk—I know of his indiscretions in Lambton before he removed to London—but I still believe he is our best option. He is the only confessed and unashamed gambler of indeterminate status with whom I have any sort of personal connection. I need his help, whether he is trustworthy or not."

"And you are expecting him to have some knowledge of this Lord Smythe?" Tanner asked doubtfully. "The man you describe seems to run quite a lucrative business amongst the country gentry, but what cause have you to believe his schemes extend to London as well?"

"None," Darcy replied, leaning back heavily against the wall. They had begun their discussion in the parlor, bur their ongoing need for coffee once young Mr. and Mrs. Tanner had retired again had prompted them to adjourn to the kitchen. Now they sat on hard wooden benches at a rough-hewn table, the only light in the room coming from a single lamp between them. At least Tanner had kept the fire lit in the stove for some measure of warmth.

"I have no indication that Smythe functions here at all," Darcy continued. "Only a general impression that most crime in England connects to London somehow. And certainly, a part of me hopes that he has no connection or influence here—all the better in terms of keeping Miss… Olivia out of his grasp."

"But why do you fear that he will come for her, Darcy?" Fitzwilliam broke in. "From what you say, it seems much more as if she was brought along as motivation for your compliance rather than for her own value. Are you not in greater danger than she is?"

Darcy shook his head gravely. "If I am taken again, so be it. I do not believe he will harm me overmuch, given that I am only worth money to him if I can pay my own ransom and actively encourage Lady Catherine to pay off her enormous debts. Ninety-thousand pounds! Such an amount is flagrantly unbelievable. But if he abducts _Olivia_ again, then not only will I be willing to pay far more for her release than my own, but her safety and virtue will almost certainly be forfeited. That is a price too heavy to bear."

"Forgive me for asking, sir," Tanner put in, eyeing Darcy uncertainly, "but you've not yet made clear the nature of your connection to the young lady."

"She is not… that is…"

"You wish us to call her Olivia, and so we will, but she is Miss Olivia to you, and therefore she is of quality. I know you're a man of honor, sir, and I cannot help but wonder how you came to this situation in her company."

"I hardly know myself," Darcy sighed, rubbing his blood-shot eyes. "Suffice it to say that although I prize her wellbeing and happiness far more highly than my own, there is… no connection between us… beyond friendship. I am her protector as long as we are involved in this mad situation, but I am no more." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

Tanner raised his eyebrows at Fitzwilliam, who rolled his eyes and mouthed, _He loves her._

Tanner replied, _And she?_

Fitzwilliam answered with a shrug and a "maybe" gesture. Driven by his continuing concerns regarding the wisdom of Darcy's insistence on pursuing Miss Bennet, he had observed her closely through the past few days, but beyond finding obvious comfort in Darcy's presence, her drugged state had made it difficult to perform a deeper assessment. He still swung back and forth between approving of her personally, acknowledging the need to salvage her reputation, and being disgusted that Darcy would even entertain thoughts of such an unequal alliance.

 _Ah_ , Tanner replied knowingly.

"So what is your next step?" Tanner asked Darcy aloud. "I know my part—I will leave messages tomorrow at several taverns in the neighborhood my worthless son tends to favor asking him to meet me tomorrow night at that tavern I mentioned in Whitechapel. But what about the two of you?"

"I must discreetly visit my man of business," Darcy replied, "and have him begin the withdrawal of significant funds from my bank on my behalf without having to be present myself, in case a ransom is needed. We shall spend the next few days making some discreet inquiries, possibly engaging a private detective to assist in our efforts to discover more about Lord Smythe, and attempting to force more information from Lady Catherine and Smythe's agent in Coxton. I will do what I must, but I am convinced that the key to securing our safety lies not in paying the man, but in discovering his connections and making it most unpleasant somehow for him to continue to conduct such business."

"You plan to single-handedly bring down this man and his entire network?" Fitzwilliam asked, surprised. Had his missed this part of the plan somewhere? "That is… ambitious."

"There were whisperings amongst Smythe's men, mentions of Smythe leaving the business and his lieutenant taking it over. Now might be the perfect time to unravel the entire operation. And besides, Father always said that it was better to aim high than to hit the ground."

All three men chuckled—that had, indeed, been one of old Mr. Darcy's favorite sayings.

"And your Olivia will stay here with us," Tanner said, sliding the bench out and slowly standing, his bones creaking loudly. "We will care for her as one of our own."

Darcy stood, too, frowning deeply. "She is not mine, Tanner."

Tanner waved the comment off with a flick of his hand. "As you say."

Fitzwilliam kept his eye roll to himself this time as he rose to his feet.

Darcy moved on. "I shall never be able to thank you enough for your kindness, Tanner. You are an excellent fellow."

"Amen to that," Fitzwilliam said around a yawn. "And now if you will excuse us, it is time for us to retire to that empty flat you mentioned upstairs and sleep for a few hours before setting out."

Both gentlemen shook hands with the spry old man and exited as quietly as possible into the alley. It was still dark enough that they did not fear notice as they climbed the back stairs to the upstairs flat and unlocked the door with the key Tanner had offered them. Fitzwilliam was only mildly curious as he gazed around the rather basic apartment. Clean and spare, only a few pieces of necessary furniture, and a view out the front window of a section of Islington's High Street—it was a fair bit of luck that Tanner's last tenant had moved to Dorcestershire only a fortnight before and they had not yet rented the rooms.

Fitzwilliam turned to his cousin. "In case you wake and set out before me, cousin, good luck."

He and Darcy shook hands solemnly. "And you, Fitz."

"You mean Mr. Sydney Barker," Fitzwilliam replied with a wink. "And I assure you, Mr. William Welton, that I have no need of luck. Only sense."

Darcy offered a small smile. "Of course, Barker. Stay safe."

"Always."

Fitzwilliam made his way in the darkness to one of the two, small bedrooms and collapsed on the sturdy bed, only removing his boots after he had lain down. He closed his eyes and found himself again imagining Mrs. Collins' voice: "You should not sleep in your coat—you will wrinkle it beyond repair."

"But it will hide my inherent nobility better if it is wrinkled," he would reply.

Her eyebrows would raise. "Perhaps it is your 'inherent nobility' that is wrinkled. I suppose at least your coat will match it now."

He laughed to himself, even as he felt sleep tugging at him. Soon he would be back in Kent, seeing her again. He could not help smiling at the thought, and even the awareness that she would never be his, that she would spurn him if she knew the direction of his thoughts, was not enough to calm his eagerness. He was helping Darcy and Miss Bennet, after all. Was that not good-deed enough to atone for his increasingly inappropriate partiality for Mrs. Collins?

That idea comforted him, and he drifted, finally, to a peaceful sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: I did not write_ Pride and Prejudice _._

 _Chapter Seven_

"Good afternoon, Olivia!"

Lizzy offered a confused smile to Mrs. Tanner, who was standing at one end of the kitchen table and kneading a lump of dough. The feebleness of her efforts made it obvious that her arms were growing weary, that perhaps this was a task with which she was unfamiliar, but she smiled happily.

"Olivia?" Lizzy asked uncertainly.

"The gentlemen said that is what we are to call you."

"Ah." She supposed it made sense to remain here under an alias, although she would have liked to choose it herself. "Yes, but please call me Livvy." It sounded close enough to Lizzy that she was more likely to answer to it. "Forgive me for sleeping so long."

"Nonsense! It was obvious last night that you needed as much rest as you could get, poor thing." Mrs. Tanner motioned to the bench across the table. "Please, have a seat. I can get you a cup of tea in a moment, and as soon as this is finished, we can find you a late luncheon."

"Please, do not trouble yourself," Lizzy said, lowering herself gingerly onto the bench, avoiding the far side that was covered in flour. Her muscles were stiff and sore, but her actual wound hurt less this morning. "Tea would be lovely, but I can get my own in a moment if you will tell me where everything is. I do not wish to interrupt."

"'Tis no trouble." Mrs. Tanner kneaded for another minute or two before releasing a dubious sigh and dropping the lump of dough into a large bowl, which she then covered with a cloth and set on a low table near the fireplace. She wiped her hands on the apron tied around her waist before bustling toward the cupboards on the far side of the small room.

Lizzy could not help a slight smile as she watched Mrs. Tanner move through the kitchen. She reminded Lizzy vividly of Mrs. Hill, their housekeeper at Longbourn, although on the surface there was no resemblance. Mrs. Hill was short and stout, and her complexion was rather more like a brick than it ought to be, whereas Mrs. Tanner was of average height and quite thin, with a cheerful haze of golden hair around her face and very good skin. But both women moved with impressive purpose and determination, as if a wall betwixt them and their destination would be wise to rethink its position.

An ache of longing for home swept over Lizzy, and she had to bite her lip to prevent herself from growing teary. How she missed everyone! But she was done with crying, she had decided in her room upon awakening. Her eyes were still scratchy and red from the night before, and she had no wish to prove herself any weaker, even if no one else knew of it. No matter what she discovered today, there would be no tears.

The cup of tea Mrs. Tanner placed before her was wonderfully restorative, and it awakened her appetite for the small offering of a biscuit and cheese that appeared soon after.

"I am sorry it isn't much," Mrs. Tanner frowned, wringing her hands. "You see, we weren't planning on guests, and I haven't had time to go to market yet today, but I'll go once the bread has risen and baked."

"It is more than enough, Laura," Lizzy assured her gently. "I find my appetite is always small just after I awaken. This is perfect."

Mrs. Tanner looked relieved, and her smile was wide and genuine. "Well, that's all right then." She returned to the sideboard and retrieved another lump of dough, dumping it into the floured spot on the tabletop and beginning to knead again. Lizzy found herself fascinated by the movements required, her mind comparing Mrs. Tanner's weak pressing to the harsh rolling and slapping performed by the Longbourn servants.

"May I…" Lizzy began a little awkwardly, "That is, would you like some help?"

"Oh, no!" Mrs. Tanner cried, looking rather dismayed again. "Bread-baking is a skill I have never mastered, but you are our guest! Mr. Darcy…er, Mr. Welton, I mean, he says you must rest as much as possible, and since you're in our charge for now, we'll take the best care of you that we can."

Lizzy felt instantly alarmed—she was in their charge?—but she drew in a deliberate deep breath and asked calmly, "Mr. Welton?"

"'Tis the name he wishes to be called for now, until all your troubles can be sorted. Grandfather did not tell Jacob and I much, but he says that some bad men are trying to take you away, and that it's our job to keep you safe here while Mr. Dar— Mr. Welton and his friend Mr… Barker, I think, try to find them first and stop them."

"Ah. So Mr. Welton wishes me to remain here until further notice?"

"Yes, Livvy, and I must say, I am very glad. It will be so nice to have some female company around here. I have three sisters at home, and even though I haven't been away for very long yet, I miss them dreadfully. You are to pretend to be my cousin who has come to stay from Shropshire—that's where my family lives. You are Olivia Beatty. Is that somewhat close to your real name? He would not tell us what it is."

Lizzy gazed out the small kitchen window, where a little of the afternoon light was creeping in between the buildings that formed the alley through which they had entered the previous night. She stared hard at the waves in the panes of glass, willing herself not to cry. "Olivia Beatty. Yes, I suppose that is somewhat like my real name. And I am from Shropshire?"

"Indeed. I shall tell you all about it, if you wish, so that if anyone comes visiting, you'll have some things to say. Although, perhaps I had better wait—you do not look at all well. Perhaps you should return to bed for a few more hours. Oh, maybe you should not have eaten yet! Oh, dear, I wish Jacob were here! He would know what to do."

Lizzy tried to relax, hoping that would allow some color into her cheeks. "I am all right, Laura. Do not worry so. I am just a touch overwhelmed. I think I shall ask Mr. _Welton_ to explain it all to me. Is he in the parlor?" She had some things to say to Mr. Darcy, that was for certain, although how she would manage to say them without her volume drawing the attention of the entire neighborhood, she did not know. He had chosen her a name and a history without any of her input? Clearly many decisions had been made without her! Ugh, she should never have let them force her into sleep the previous night, no matter how ill she had been.

"No, he's gone."

Lizzy stiffened, her eyes fastening on Mrs. Tanner again. "He's gone? Mr… Welton?"

"Yes, he left shortly after breakfast."

"And Mr. Barker? Has he gone as well?"

"Yes. To Kent, I believe, although I was not supposed to overhear that." She beat at the dough uselessly, adding in a mutter, "I cannot see why my knowing the name of the county could be dangerous. I'm not some sort of babbling brook—I can keep a secret better than anyone."

"To Kent?" Lizzy asked, her voice tight and squeaky.

"I think so, yes."

Lizzy suddenly dearly wished she had not eaten the biscuit and cheese, for they and the cup of tea were threatening to abandon her in a very violent and unpleasant manner.

Mr. Darcy had left her! He had found a place to stow her away then run off to solve the problem without her. The sensible part of her mind chided her instantly for that thought—none of her doubted that his highest priority was her safety, and she knew that he would do whatever was required to secure it, even if it meant leaving her behind. But at the moment, the sensible part of her was rather quiet and dispirited, and she was consumed with feelings of abandonment and rejection. Had she truly been such a liability?

Her heart clenched—she probably had been! Had it not been for her presence with the kidnappers, Mr. Darcy would have had a much easier time of it. Had he not been concerned for her virtue, not to mention her well-being, he could have focused on escaping or simply waited out the ransom demand, complied, and returned home in relative health and safety. It was because of her that things had been so difficult.

It made perfect sense for him to leave her behind at the first opportunity. She could not deny it, although she felt even more ill as she tried to force herself to accept it.

Then an even more miserable thought crossed her mind: he had left her somewhere safe, but what if something befell him or Colonel Fitzwilliam? How would she even know of it? Through Mr. Tanner, perhaps, but not for some time after the misfortune had occurred. For all she knew, one of Lord Smythe's compatriots could have already spotted the two men on the road to Kent and be in pursuit of them. A day from now, they could both be lying face-down with bullets in their backs on the side of a roadway in Kent or Sussex, and she would not know it for weeks!

Lizzy had to cover her mouth and draw a few very long breaths in through her nose in order to quell the uneasiness in her stomach. She was being ridiculous. He would be fine—they both would. At least, for a few days. But the danger to them as they began investigating Lord Smythe and his connections would increase with every bit of knowledge they managed to glean in Kent or elsewhere, and trouble would become an increasing possibility. Oh, how would she stand it?

She felt like running from the house in that very moment, chasing Mr. Darcy down on foot, and punching him in the face like some common ruffian. How could he have abandoned her here to such lonesome misery? She could not even contact her family or friends. What would happen as days and then weeks passed without them receiving word from her? Had he considered that? She had no way to know.

And besides that, how would _he_ know if she were to be retaken by Smythe's men? Did Tanner have a way to get word to Mr. Darcy, or had he been so certain of her safety that he had not even considered the possibility? Who would help her if he could not?

Lizzy barely prevented herself from moaning aloud. Only a few days before, she had thought that nothing any gentleman could do to her could be any more unforgiveable than ruining Jane's happiness and harming innocent Mr. Wickham, but she had been terribly naïve. Even the threat to her physical safety that she had endured the past two days did not inspire in her the rage she was feeling right now. What Mr. Darcy had done now was much, _much_ worse. Leaving her here without a say, without information? _That_ was unforgiveable.

He had not even bid her farewell. His sudden cold treatment of her the previous night had rankled, but that was nothing to this pain. Should not a man as violently in love as he claimed to be feel an almost desperate need to take his leave of his beloved before haring off on a dangerous adventure?

Perhaps through all of this, his feelings for her were changing. Perhaps he was coming to regret his hasty affections. He had seen her at her worst, after all, in both behavior and appearance. She had been so weak and frightened, so much the opposite of her usual indomitable self. He had seen the truth of her in the past few days, the fear that she always kept hidden deep beneath the surface. He had seen that, at heart, she was only a vain, selfish, frightened child who liked to pretend to be brave.

He had seen her as she truly was, and he had discovered that his affections had been misplaced. How he must be congratulating himself on his narrow escape from her clutches!

"Livvy? Olivia?"

Lizzy focused on Mrs. Tanner's worried expression, hovering over her from the other side of the table. "Come along, dear. Let's get you back to bed. You seem quite unwell. More rest should help, and I'll have Jacob look in on you as soon as he returns tonight."

"No," Lizzy whispered around the tightness in her throat, brushing away Mrs. Tanner's floury hands as they moved to lift her. "No, I do not wish to sleep more." She would only lie there feeling sorry for herself. She was hovering perilously close to an emotional precipice. "Is there something I can do to help?"

"I think not. You do not look well enough to stand, let alone help."

Lizzy shook herself, trying to ignore the pervasive sadness enveloping her. "I am only stiff and sore. Some movement will help settle me, I promise."

Mrs. Tanner looked doubtful, but after a moment, she sighed and reached for a small bowl of pea pods, sliding it in front of her.

"Thank you, Laura," Lizzy said gratefully. Then she frowned a little into the bowl. "Um… could you just remind me how to do this?"

Mrs. Tanner's eyebrows raised, and Lizzy saw her eyes dart to Lizzy's hands before she looked quite alarmed and started to tug the bowl back away quickly. "Oh! I should have realized! You're a gentlewoman, aren't you? Only a young lady would have hands as fine and delicate as yours. And here I was, about to let you shell our dinner peas! Oh, goodness!"

"Nonsense," Lizzy said, tugging back the bowl. "I am your cousin Olivia Beatty, and as your cousin, it is my _right_ to shell the peas!"

Mrs. Tanner looked shocked for a moment before a smile burst onto her face. "That is perfectly ridiculous!"

Lizzy laughed a little at herself. "Possibly, but I insist nonetheless." Mrs. Tanner looked prepared to deny her, so she added, "Please, Laura. I want to be useful, and if I am to remain here for some time, even some weeks, I would much rather be of help than be treated as a guest."

After a moment, Mrs. Tanner replied, "Well, I suppose I would feel the same. I only hope Mr. Welton is not too angry when he returns. He'll not be happy to find a gentlewoman helping prepare his meals."

"He may consider himself my protector," Lizzy said with an embarrassing amount of bitterness, "but he is neither my father nor my guardian, and I can do as I like, particularly as he will not be returning for some time yet. Today, I would _like_ to help."

After another few sighs, Mrs. Tanner began to show Lizzy how to press the pods open and dump the peas into another small bowl she had provided. It was difficult with only one hand, and she knew she was probably taking ten times as long to do the task as Mrs. Tanner would herself, but she managed to do at least a little bit.

They worked in the kitchen for some time, Mrs. Tanner's cheerful chatter helping to keep Lizzy's mind off her sorrows and off the discomfort of her sore shoulder. The repetitive motion was difficult at first, but it worked out some of her stiffness, and she felt better as time went on. They were just giggling, half-amusedly and half-despairingly, at the sunken bread loaves Mrs. Tanner was pulling from the oven when a commotion at the back door drew their attention.

"Your menfolk are returned!" called out old Mr. Tanner as he limped tiredly through the door, making straight for the bench at the table and dropping onto it with a wince.

He was followed by young Mr. Tanner, who smiled widely at his wife as he hung his hat on a hook near the door. He greeted her with a kiss to her forehead, offering her a sympathetic smile at the sight of the failed bread. He then noticed Lizzy at the table and gave her a grave nod, not entirely friendly, but not hostile either. She nodded in return.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Tanner," Lizzy said to the older man, wiping her own brow.

"And to you, Missy," he said gruffly. "I see you've jumped right in with helping our Laura. That's right kind of you."

She brushed some lingering flour from the apron Mrs. Tanner had leant her. "No, indeed. I wanted a way to clear my mind of my troubles, and it would seem that nothing can do that so effectively as keeping busy. She is the one being kind." She glanced up at the younger man. "And the movement helped with my stiffness."

He nodded again, his expression maybe a little lighter. "I'm glad. I'll check the dressing on your shoulder again this evening, but if you've been able to work all afternoon, that's a very good sign."

"Yes," Lizzy said, lifting her good shoulder a little and wincing, "although now that I have stopped, I think perhaps I did a little too much today."

"I said as much," Mrs. Tanner said, smiling fondly at Lizzy, "but she just kept going. She refused to quit."

"Olivia is not one for admitting defeat," said a low voice from the open kitchen door.

"Mr. Darcy!" Lizzy jumped to her feet, heedless of her soreness and fatigue, and made it most of the way across the kitchen before regaining control and slowing her approach to a slightly more seemly speed. "You have returned!"

She reached out and grasped his hands hard, just barely preventing herself from flouting all propriety and throwing herself into his arms.

"Of course," he said, offering her a bewildered smile. Then he glanced around at the Tanners, who were all watching them closely, and frowned, releasing her hands and taking a step back, closing the kitchen door with his foot. "I told Mrs. Tanner I would return before supper."

Lizzy spun on Mrs. Tanner. "But you said he was gone!"

Mrs. Tanner frowned a little. "Yes—for the day."

"I… oh! Oh, I thought…"

Mr. Darcy stepped around to catch her gaze, his face concerned. "You believed I had left you?"

"I thought—she said the colonel had returned to Kent, and I thought you had gone with him." Lizzy heard the emotion in her voice but was powerless to hide it. She was too relieved, too happy to see him, even if he wished to keep her at a distance. At least he was here!

"No," he said quietly, his look intense. "I will explain all to you, I promise, but for now, just know that while Fitzwilliam returns to learn as much as he can from my aunt and Lord Smythe's agent, I remain here to investigate some other possibilities as well as remain hidden. I, Mr. William Welton, am the Tanner's new upstairs tenant."

It took all of Lizzy's willpower not to close the distance between them and bury her face against his chest. She was just too relieved to do much else, propriety be hanged! She drew in a deep breath and released it in a happy sigh. "I… I am so glad."

"Are you?" he asked seriously, his voice barely loud enough to hear.

His intent gaze unnerved her, seeming to ask something she was unprepared to answer with him standing so stiffly, so far away from her. She tried to laugh breezily but could not quite meet his eyes. "Of course! I was most displeased that I would be left in the dark regarding anything you might learn about our situation. I dislike feeling ignorant."

"Ah. Of course." He was quiet for a moment. "I apologize for any concern you might have felt."

"'Twas my own misunderstanding, sir," she replied awkwardly, wishing she had the courage to look up at his face. "No apology is necessary."

The room was silent, and Lizzy became unpleasantly aware that the Tanners were all watching their exchange.

"Now is as good a time as any for the two of you to discuss your situation," Mrs. Tanner said, a tiny bit of humor evident in her tone. Lizzy looked sharply at her, a blush already creeping over her face as she realized how strangely she had been behaving. "Please use the parlor—none of us will disturb you there."

Lizzy blushed more deeply at Mrs. Tanner's blatant wink. She stepped further back from Mr. Darcy and brushed at her apron. "But I was going to accompany you to the market and help you make supper."

Mrs. Tanner started to shake her head kindly, but Mr. Darcy spoke first. "No—you cannot go out. The risk of your being recognized is far too great."

"Pardon me?" Lizzy scoffed, immediately defensive. "Did you not spend all day out? You are far more recognizable in London than I am."

"I am aware of the risk," he replied, unimpressed, "but it is necessary. It is not required, however, for both of us to be endangered."

"But…" Lizzy wanted to argue, but she remembered all Mr. Darcy had told her before they had left the ship the previous day. If he were caught, the consequences would be far less devastating than if she were recaptured. Her helplessness made her furious, but arguing against his point would only prove her stubborn and foolish as well. She tried to calm herself. "But am I truly to remain inside without reprieve until the situation is resolved? I shall go mad!"

"Is our home so wretched?" young Mr. Tanner asked sourly, putting a protective arm around his wife's shoulders. "Too small for a fine lady such as yourself?"

Lizzy offered an apologetic glance toward Mrs. Tanner, who was rolling her eyes at her husband. At least _she_ had known what Lizzy meant. "Of course not, Mr. Tanner. Your home is very comfortable, and your wife has made me feel perfectly useful and welcome, but I… that is, I am not accustomed to…"

"Remaining indoors for any significant length of time?" Mr. Darcy put in. He explained to the Tanners, "Olivia rarely allows a day to pass without spending a significant portion of it out of doors." He turned back to Lizzy, his expression sympathetic. "I know this will be difficult, and if we go for some days without any hint of danger, perhaps we can discuss an evening excursion or an early morning walk in the park, but for now, Fitzwilliam and I think it wisest to keep you as hidden as possible."

"What about what I think is best?" Lizzy asked, folding her arms across her chest.

Mr. Darcy opened his mouth to speak, his expression fiery, but then he seemed to think better of his reply. He frowned thoughtfully, and after a moment, he said slowly, "Do you have a different proposal? Something that will allow you to feel free while still allowing me some peace of mind?"

She was unprepared for his sensible question. "Well… that is, no. Not particularly. I just… well, I truly will go mad."

"I am certain Mrs. Tanner will do her best to keep you busy," he said, looking to Mrs. Tanner, who nodded enthusiastically. "And Tanner and his grandson will contribute whenever they are available. Tanner is an excellent storyteller—I am sure your evenings will not be dull."

Old Mr. Tanner laughed heartily. "Oh, aye. I'll tell you stories that will curl your toes and the hairs on your head. And my grandson is an excellent singer. He will do his part as well, as Mrs. Tanner loves to hear him sing."

"That I do!" said Mrs. Tanner, smiling widely up at her husband, who reddened slightly but answered her with a shy grin.

"Just pretend it is raining outside," Mr. Darcy said, offering Lizzy a half-smile.

Lizzy was feeling more cheerful, she had to admit. This could have blown into one of hers and Mr. Darcy's usual arguments, but somehow he had averted the escalation without embarrassing her. He had been so _respectful_.

"And what, sir, will you contribute to my daily entertainment?" she asked saucily. "You cannot be the only one who has nothing to offer."

He looked away and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I had not… that is, I was uncertain whether you would wish for me to be present in the evenings. I have my own lodgings, and I am perfectly able to retire there each night. Now that my company is no longer being forced upon you, I have no wish to make you… discontent."

"I should think, sir," she said, trying not to blush again, "that you know me well enough to assume that if I was displeased by your presence, I would make that abundantly clear. But you are only welcome if you promise to be entertaining. How do you intend to amuse me?"

"Georgiana tells me that I am quite a good reader," he said, his expression still stiff but his tone hopeful. "I could read to you. I passed a quaint little bookshop on the way back here this afternoon, and there were several volumes in which you may have interest."

An image appeared in Lizzy's mind: she and Mr. Darcy sitting in wingback chairs on either side of a lively fire, her hands busy with a needle and his holding a small volume, his smooth baritone voice filling the space between and around them. The intimate peace of the portrait filled her with longing.

"I suppose that will have to do," she replied. He looked up at her words, and she sent him a teasing smile. A tiny answering smile appeared on his face. She deliberately looked away, discomfited by the sense of triumph his expression had inspired in her. She frowned away her pleasure, reminding herself of their present situation. "But for now, sir, I think we should take advantage of Mrs. Tanner's parlor. I would very much like to know what we are going to do."

He nodded, serious again. "Of course. Tanner? Are you available to chaperone us?"

Old Mr. Tanner snorted from his slumped position at the table. Mrs. Tanner had brought him a cup of tea, but he looked almost too tired to drink it. "I have spent the entire day tramping around the seediest taverns in this city, hunting down my useless son as a service to you, and now you expect me to spend my evening watching the two of you conversing privately and making eyes at one another in the parlor? I think not."

Lizzy knew her face had colored—making eyes at one another?—but she ignored the uncomfortable parts of his statement in favor of greater understanding. "Your son, sir? What do you mean?"

"I will explain all to you, Eli… Olivia," Mr. Darcy replied after glaring at Mr. Tanner, "but in general, we think that Mr. Tanner's son, Mr. Roland Tanner, may have connections to men who can help us learn more about Lord Smythe."

"He is an investigator of some kind?" she asked eagerly. "Does he work with the Bow Street Runners?"

Mr. Tanner snorted again.

"No. He is a gambler, a rather experienced and notorious one, and a general ne'er-do-well. He does not frequent the gentlemen's clubs, of course, but he knows his way around a gaming table. We will convince him to help us." Mr. Darcy's eyebrows pinched together, a sure sign of anxiety despite the confidence in his voice.

"How? If he is such a worthless scoundrel, can he be trusted to assist us?"

"I am certain Grandfather already told you," young Mr. Tanner broke in, looking concerned, "but my father can be trusted with absolutely nothing, not unless there is something in it for him."

"Your father?" Mrs. Tanner asked, her voice a little squeaky. She seemed to have paled. "He's not coming here, is he?"

"No," Old Mr. Tanner confirmed, offering her a comforting smile. "No, he knows he is never welcome here again, not after… well, after everything. We've left him messages in every tavern we could reach today telling him to meet us at The Iron Ox any day this week at one o'clock. We'll only ever meet him there, I promise you."

Mrs. Tanner looked relieved, but Lizzy could see that she still leaned heavily into her husband's side, who was, in his turn, obviously deeply concerned as well. What had Mr. Roland Tanner done to make himself so unwelcome amongst his own family?

"Do not worry," Mr. Darcy said, addressing Mrs. Tanner as much as Lizzy. "I will make it well worth his while to help us, enough that it would not be in his interests to betray us, and we will involve him as little as possible. He will never even know you exist, Olivia."

The young couple nodded before turning into one another and beginning a whispered conversation. Lizzy watched them for a moment, surprised at how jealous she was of their closeness, of Mr. Tanner's hands on his wife's arms, her freedom to lay her head against his chest. How was it that something Lizzy had had for less than two days—the ability to be so physically near someone—could already be missed so desperately?

She turned away, attempting to brush the thoughts aside, for they obviously did her no good.

"Well, I suppose I shall explain the rest now." Mr. Darcy motioned for her to precede him into the parlor then turned back. "I am sorry to be a burden, Mrs. Tanner, but would you or your husband be willing to act as chaperone…"

"Young Master," interrupted Old Mr. Tanner gruffly, "neither I nor my grandchildren have time to waste in the parlor with you. I know you gentlefolk have your traditions and rules, but the rest of us have too much to be going on with to bother attending to your silly notions. If you are pretending to be like us, then you can carry it all the way through. You are both intelligent, respectful adults, and I've no worry that you'll seduce one another in the parlor. Now be off with you." He waved a dismissive hand toward the parlor door.

The silence in the room was fraught. Lizzy looked desperately to Mrs. Tanner, but her only response was another heavy wink before turning back to her husband. Young Mr. Tanner was smirking at both of them. Lizzy glanced quickly at Mr. Darcy but could not read his expression.

Seduce one another? Good grief! How very shocking!

"Very well, then," Mr. Darcy finally replied. He would not meet Lizzy's eyes, but he motioned toward the door again, and after a moment, she moved through into the parlor. None of the Tanners bothered to smother their laughter as Mr. Darcy pulled the door shut behind them.

Well, never mind. They were right. After remaining perfectly respectful of her while sharing a bed, it was not as if she feared any inappropriateness from Mr. Darcy in a parlor. Or anywhere else, really. And it was not as if anyone else would ever know they had been alone together.

She shook her head hard once. What foolishness. The entire afternoon had been foolishness, she realized. But it was time to receive her explanation, and she would not miss a moment of it. _This_ was of actual importance. He would tell her everything he knew, everything the colonel had told him, and all their plans, and somehow, she would prove herself strong enough to handle the knowledge and find a way to assist him, even if he did not wish for it.

She would be strong, for him and for herself.

* * *

Colonel Fitzwilliam stopped in the middle of the pathway leading to the cheerful front door of Hunsford Parsonage, attempting to brush off some of the dust of the road and gather his scattered thoughts. He really should have gone straight to Rosings upon his arrival—in fact he had intended to do so—but somehow he found himself here, and as tired as his borrowed mount was, it would be kind to let her rest for a few moments at the fence, within reach of a verdant patch of clover. The horse would probably buck him off anyway if he tried to mount again now.

Fitzwilliam tried to laugh at his nervousness—what possible cause had he to be nervous? It was certainly not as if there was any danger of a bloody battle in the parsonage. He could not conceive of a less terrifying figure than Mr. Collins, even imagining him with the sword and rifle of a soldier. Nor was he courting, which was the other predictable source of this sort of anxiety, for truly, a night at Almack's was surprisingly similar to a battlefield, complete with the potential for life-threatening injuries, at least to one's pride.

But oh, he thought, as he noticed the dainty garden gloves lying abandoned next to a small trowel on the front step, how he wished he _could_ be entering that fray in this place. He knew that Mr. Collins was proprietor of the large vegetable garden behind the house, but the flower beds on either side of the front door, filled with spring blooms of various colorful sorts, must belong to Mrs. Collins. They were carefully arranged and maintained, thoroughly organized, and quite cheerful and lovely.

Fitzwilliam almost laughed at what he imagined the difference would be between these beds and some arranged by Darcy's beloved Miss Bennet. Hers would run wild, effortlessly lovely but almost accidental, as if she had just scattered seeds haphazardly. There was certainly beauty in that, but he was drawn to these symmetrical rows of bulbs interspersed evenly with spring herbals and rose bushes just forming their first buds. He had been a soldier long enough that the order of it all appealed to him.

As he stood admiring the bed, the parsonage door slammed open. Fitzwilliam looked up with a grin, anticipating the sight of Mrs. Collins running toward him, eager for news, but the grin became a grimace as he saw Mr. Collins shuffling toward him obsequiously.

"Oh, Colonel! How you honor our home with your visit!" Mr. Collins puffed, trying to catch his breath. He had only come from inside the house, had he not? Why was he panting? "We had heard that you might be away for some time. What a pleasure for me to just now spy your arrival from the corner of my poor garden. I rushed right out to greet you!"

Ah. Thus the breathlessness.

"But you look quite travel-worn, Colonel. Will you not enter our humble abode and accept what meager refreshments we have to offer? You would do us a great honor. Indeed, we have enjoyed so little company of late that you would be doing me a great service, a very great service indeed."

Mr. Collins looked as if he might go on, but before he could, Fitzwilliam broke in with, "I thank you for your kind invitation, Mr. Collins, but I am on my way to Rosings. I only stopped to…" He paused, reorganizing his thoughts. In all honesty, he wanted to speak to Mrs. Collins without her husband present, and not only for his own enjoyment. He was uncertain how much that oily little sycophant knew, but he did not want the man spreading information to Lady Catherine or anyone else before he and Mrs. Collins had an opportunity to decide what should and should not be shared. "I stopped to pay my respects and offer Mrs. Collins what comfort I may in terms of her friend."

"Poor Cousin Elizabeth!" Mr. Collins sighed, his face full of affected pity. "An abduction—I can still hardly believe it. Have you tidings of her?

"Very few," Fitzwilliam lied guiltlessly. "I followed the kidnappers' trail, but discovered little beyond the fact that they appear to have left the country."

"Left the country! Oh, my! Well, then Cousin Elizabeth is truly lost! Oh, it breaks my heart, as both her relation and as a clergyman, to hear of the fall of any innocent young woman. And of course, my greatest sympathies extend to her father, who will take the news very hard. Even should she be recovered now, she will be sullied in the eyes of the world. Poor, poor Elizabeth."

Fitzwilliam could not prevent his lip curling in disgust at the cheerfulness with which Mr. Collins expressed such dire pronouncements. What a disgusting little toady! Fitzwilliam had just opened his mouth to tell him exactly how disgusting he was when he was forced to pause and draw in a surprised breath.

Mrs. Collins was standing on the front step, her attire modest and becoming and her hands folded primly before her, but although the sight of her was welcome, it was the expression of abject desolation on her face that sucked the breath from his lungs.

He automatically stepped around Mr. Collins, coming to stand at the base of the steps. "Mrs. Collins."

"Lizzy is truly lost?" she choked out, her eyes brimming with tears.

"So it would seem, my dear," Mr. Collins said, practically singing the words. "Her reputation will be…"

"I care not about her reputation, Mr. Collins," Mrs. Collins snapped, glaring at him balefully. His mouth snapped shut. She turned her gaze back to Fitzwilliam. "I care about her safety, her well-being, and that of Mr. Darcy. Know you anything of that?"

He held her eyes and gave a single sharp nod before saying, "No, nothing."

She stared at him. "So all you found," she continued slowly, watching his face, "was their trail? Leading out of the country?"

He gave a miniscule shake of his head before replying, "Yes, that was all. There is no more hope of recovery until we receive a ransom."

"Poor Lizzy," she said quietly, but the hope in her eyes belied her words.

Mr. Collins took that opportunity to add, "Indeed. Of course, we shall pray for her, shall we not, my love?" He looked up at his wife like a puppy dog waiting to be patted on the head, but she did not acknowledge him.

"Colonel, would you care to come into the parlor and rest for a few moments?" she asked politely, not betraying a farthing of the eagerness he knew she must be feeling. "You look weary, and I am certain you are hungry. Mrs. Locken just finished a batch of the spiced biscuits you like so much."

He did not want to stop here. He had even less desire than before to spend time in Mr. Collins' presence. But he found himself unable to refuse the sincerity in her manner. "How could a gentleman resist such an offer? I will accept, Mrs. Collins, but just for a moment or two. I must be on my way quickly."

He followed Mrs. Collins inside, taking a distinctly inappropriate pleasure in moving quickly enough that Mr. Collins was forced to bring up the rear instead of escorting his wife through the door as he seemed intent upon doing. Then upon entering, Mrs. Collins quickly reminded her husband that he was still dressed in his gardening attire and ought to change before receiving company. He retreated at once, yelling agreements and apologies all the way up the stairs.

The moment his footsteps reached the top landing, Mrs. Collins crossed to where Fitzwilliam had seated himself and stopped before him, wringing her hands.

"You do not wish my husband to hear your news. Tell me what you know, Colonel, as quickly as you can manage."

He stood and faced her, bending forward to keep his voice as low as possible. "They are found. Miss Bennet is safe and whole, as is Darcy. They were, indeed, abducted, and they were within moments of being carried across the channel from Dover, but through their own wisdom and only a moment of assistance from myself, they managed to escape the vessel without their captors' immediate knowledge and take refuge in an inn. Miss Bennet was injured in the escape, but it is a small wound, and she is otherwise perfectly well. Darcy took a prodigious deal of care of her, I believe, but she did no less for him."

"Oh, Lizzy!" Mrs. Collins looked ready to faint with relief. Fitzwilliam reached out and grasped her upper arms to keep her upright. "Oh, I am so glad! But why did they not return with you? Is she on her way home?"

"Not yet. We have judged it best to learn more about Lord Smythe and his methods before we assume that returning to their homes and families is safe. She and Darcy are hiding out in London."

"Together?" Her eyebrows disappeared under the stray curls at her hairline.

"In a manner of speaking," Fitzwilliam answered wryly. "She is staying with a family friend of Darcy's, and he is renting the rooms above-stairs. He is quite conscious of salvaging her reputation as much as he is able, despite spending rather more time together in the past few days than Society would consider appropriate."

"And if the secret is not kept? If the circumstances are discovered? All of this secrecy will be for naught if they are discovered keeping company in Town."

"If that occurs, Darcy will act the part of gentleman, I have no doubt. Heavens knows, he would be happy enough to do it. I am not as certain of her, but I am almost positive she would have no objection either."

"Lizzy? Three days ago, she would have sworn she hated him."

"Much has changed since then, as I am certain you can imagine."

She raised her eyebrows, and he could see that she wished to ask more, but she impressed him once again by remaining focused on more important issues. "What can I do to help? Besides keep these facts to myself. Obviously neither my husband nor Lady Catherine ought to know all of this until more can be discovered. Neither one has much discretion."

"My thoughts exactly," Fitzwilliam said, appreciating her intelligence even more than before. "But there is nothing else I can ask of you. My task here in Kent is to discover all I can from my aunt and Lord Smythe's agent in Coxton, as well as from the other members of this gambling circle, but as you cannot help with that…"

"But I can," she argued instantly. "I will… I _must_ do all I can to aid you."

"There is nothing else you can do from here. Lady Catherine, I assume, has not returned you to her confidence, and beyond providing me with the welcome respite of sensible conversation whilst I am at Rosings, there is little else you can contribute. I am sorry."

Mrs. Collins shook her head, stepping back and breaking his hold on her arms. "No, sir. I am the one who is sorry that _you_ do not see the value of what I can offer. I have had much time to consider these past few days whilst you have been running all over the country. It became clear to me that knowing more about Lord Smythe would become relatively important if Lizzy and Mr. Darcy were not found. It is quite obvious that I am the person _most_ capable of gleaning information from his connections in Coxton."

"How can that possibly be so?" Fitzwilliam asked, entirely flummoxed by such a ridiculous assertion from a normally-sensible lady.

"I am in possession of nearly every bit of knowledge Mr. Collins has about the situation," she replied, ticking off a count on her fingers. "I am familiar with blending into country society. I am a quick thinker and am quite skilled at making rational decisions without emotion clouding my judgment. I am unknown to the members of the gambling circle in the town. In short, I am quite well-qualified to glean information."

"You cannot be serious!" Fitzwilliam blustered, his fists clenching at his sides.

"I am perfectly serious," she replied, a picture of calm rationality. "Have I said something incorrect?"

He suddenly hated the very coolness of temper that he had so recently admired in her. It left him all too aware of the disproportionate violence of his reaction to her suggestion. He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, a tactic he had often used on the battlefield to overcome his anxiety and return himself to composure.

"No," he answered, proud of how sensible he sounded. "Your statements are all correct, but I believe you are not accounting for the dangers of the situation. The members of the circle are not, I suspect, the sort of people with whom you associated in Hertfordshire society, or at least, they will not behave the same way in the gambling room of a tavern as they do while dancing in an assembly room. Your experience with the one will not guarantee your ability to understand and assess the other. Also, while I agree that you are quick-witted and logical, you do not know that you possess every piece of knowledge Mr. Collins has. There may be things he has not told you that could result in revealing yourself and thereby putting yourself in danger."

"I am not afraid of danger," she argued. Fitzwilliam was pleased to see a bit of her emotion leak through—she seemed both frightened and determined.

He approached her again, this time clasping her hands gently. "I do not doubt your bravery or your abilities. I only doubt your ability to handle a physical threat, something we shall be quite likely to face."

"But you are already known to them, are you not? Did you not stop there on the night you left here and attempt to gain information from them?"

Fitzwilliam frowned. Yes, he had reached Darcy and Miss Bennet in time to rescue them solely because of what he had gleaned from Lord Smythe's agent in Coxton, but it was a shame that that exposure would make it harder to explain his return to Coxton now. "They saw me once, but I do not believe they were suspicious of me, and I should be able to convince them that, having reached Lord Smythe in time before he left for France, I am now on my way home to the north."

"What if Lord Smythe has already gotten word to his agents to be on watch for his lost captives? Would not Kent be one of the first places to receive such a message?"

"There is hope that Smythe will have been unable to turn back for some time. It might be days before a message could reach them here. And there is not any reason for them to know of my involvement…" His voice trailed off. _If_ Cardon had not managed to contain the one of Smythe's henchmen who had caught Miss Bennet outside the inn, and _if_ that one had managed to get a message to Kent so quickly, there _was_ a miniscule chance that they might have a description of him in connection with Darcy.

"You are not certain of that, are you?" she said, shaking her head and squeezing his hands. "Would it not be wiser to send me in, entirely unknown to them, than to risk your being recognized and associated with your cousin? Then not only would your ability to learn anything from them be ended, but you would become another target."

"But what would you do if you were threatened? How would you protect yourself?"

She broke eye contact. "I would… think of something."

He barked a derisive laugh.

"How would you live with yourself," she volleyed back, dropping his hands like hot coals, "if it was because you were recognized that we were unable to learn anything from Smythe's man? And what danger would you then face?"

They stared at one another, neither one willing to back down. His eyes roamed her countenance, looking for signs of capitulation, but he found none. She was a worthy opponent, a woman with backbone and intelligence and determination who did not fear him in the least. He noticed that her hair had loosened from its tight knot, probably while she was gardening earlier. Her cheeks were pink with vigor and heightened emotion, and her eyes were flashing with passionate defiance.

Heaven help him, she was so beautiful! How had he ever thought her plain?

His eyes dropped to her mouth. What he would not give to close the gap between them, to show her for just a moment how much he admired her, how much he wished that there could be more for both of them.

But even if he did not prize his honor too highly to allow such a lapse of judgment, he knew what her response would be if he tried to kiss her. Or at least, he thought he did, and that outcome he could not bear.

He stepped back, increasing the distance between them and shaking his head to clear it. "I recognize the legitimacy of your claims, Mrs. Collins, and I appreciate the depth of your desire to help your friend, but I cannot accept your assistance. I could never live with myself if I knowingly acquiesced to your putting yourself into a situation where you were threatened or hurt or where _your_ reputation was damaged because of your involvement. I am sorry."

"You would risk their safety to protect my so-called reputation?" she scoffed. "I am a married woman! There is little to no danger for me on that score, and I do not believe…"

"I am coming, my love!" called a voice from the hallway. Heavy steps pounded on the stairway. "Forgive me, forgive me, for my tardiness. Molly seems to have hung my best jacket somewhere unfortunate, silly, absentminded girl... Ah! Here I am!"

By the time Mr. Collins crossed the threshold into the parlor, Mrs. Collins was seated on a chaise near the fireplace and Fitzwilliam was leaning next to the window that looked out on the front walk, the very spot where Darcy had spent many an awkward visit in previous weeks.

"But dearest!" cried Mr. Collins, dramatically aghast. "Where is our tea? Is Mrs. Locken being derelict in her duties? It is so very difficult to find good help these days, as Lady Catherine has so often lamented and as I'm certain you'll agree, Colonel. Mr. and Mrs. Locken have only been with me a few months, since I was offered this living by your most gracious relation, and while their services have not been entirely inadequate, I have found that they are sometimes a tad remiss in treating guests with the respect and immediacy which they deserve. Why, I often think…"

As he spoke, Mr. Collins reached out for the bell that would call the housekeeper, but Mrs. Collins jumped to her feet before he could. "I shall go and see what is taking so long," she offered, not sounding at all urgent. She was an impressive actress, Fitzwilliam acknowledged—Mr. Collins would never guess she had not ordered tea at all yet. "After all, as Lady Catherine always says, a lady must always be ready to take care of a household problem herself."

"Oh, my dearest, you are a paragon of wisdom!" Mr. Collins cried, reaching out to grasp Mrs. Collins's hand as she passed by. She stopped where she was and allowed him to kiss her hand obsequiously, but she did not meet his eye as he did so nor try to smile, as Fitzwilliam had seen her do in the past. Mr. Collins looked up at her hopefully, but her expression was blank, and his eagerness wilted as he released her and she moved toward the door again.

"Forgive me, Mrs. Collins, Mr. Collins," Fitzwilliam said, "but it is later than I had imagined when I stopped." No one noticed that he had not actually opened the pocket watch he held out to show them. "Tell Mrs. Locken that I shall be delighted to enjoy her wonderful biscuits another time."

Mrs. Collins turned to face him, her eyes narrowing. "How unfortunate."

He did not need a translator to help him read her expression. W _e are not finished._

"If I learn anything of Miss Bennet's whereabouts," Fitzwilliam offered, "you shall know of it immediately." He hoped Mr. Collins could not detect the plea inside those words. _Stay out of this_.

"You are too kind." _This is not over_.

He wanted to stay, to take Mrs. Collins by the arms again and shake her until she saw sense, but as that was neither wise nor possible, he bowed, mostly ignored Mr. Collins, who had begun rambling again, and strode out without a look back.

He comforted himself, as he mounted his grumpy mare and rode down the lane toward Rosings, with the idea that he had been firm, that Mrs. Collins had known he was serious in his refusal of her help. She might not like his decision, but what could she do about it? There were certainly benefits to being a man, one of which was getting the final word in such circumstances. Perhaps when they met again, when he returned to the parsonage in three or four days' time, he would have enough information to appease her.

He might not be able to further any real connection with Mrs. Collins, but he could at least do all he could to help her friend, and he could make sure that upon leaving Rosings this time, they were parting as friends themselves. That was really all for which he might hope.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for the reviews this week. They were... interesting. It's funny how much opinions vary about different aspects of the story, my favorite obviously being the Charlotte/Fitzwilliam arc. "Oh, they're so great together!" "Ugh... super boring. Stick to Lizzy and Darcy." "Collins needs to die!" "Um, you do know Charlotte's married, right? What is the point of this?" It was strange to watch their story weave as I typed. All I knew when I started was that Lizzy and Fitz would be my storytellers. And here's the thing: I'm really sorry if you don't like them, but this is as much Fitz's story as Lizzy's. Feel free to skip their sections, as long as you don't mind missing stuff._

 _Also, I have a special request this week regarding reviews. I always appreciate encouragement, so feel free to throw any of that my way, but also use your powers of observation to help me pull all my threads together. The bigger a plot gets, the easier it is to miss things, and I've read over these chapters so many times now that I've totally lost faith in my ability to notice missing pieces. So, if you don't notice anything amiss, let me know. If you do notice questions I haven't answered and should have by now or details I've skipped over, please send them my way. I'd appreciate, however, if you'd save the more general story criticisms until after the last chapter. This story is already sucking my soul chapter by chapter, and I can't spend any more weeks pouring over the remainder frantically trying to make it "better." Thanks in advance._

 _Disclaimer: I may look like Jane Austen (dark haired, sort of plain, flat-chested), but I'm pretty sure I have better teeth than she did_

 _._

 _Chapter Eight_

"This rain is wretched!" Lizzy growled from her chair near the front window of the Tanner's parlor. "It has not even paused to draw its breath!"

"I do not see why it upsets you so," Mrs. Tanner giggled from the seat across from Lizzy's, her eyes still trained on the pile of mending in her lap. "You agreed to your captivity only two days ago, and it's not as if the downpour is what prevents you from going out."

"But it feels as if it is. Even if I were willing to risk Mr. _Welton_ 's disapproval and slip outside for a few moments, I could not do so without being soaked to my skin."

"You would not really do it, would you?" Mrs. Tanner looked up worriedly.

"I might!" Lizzy answered imperiously, raising her nose in the air. When Mrs. Tanner did not laugh, Lizzy slumped back and gave her a comforting smile. "No, of course I would not. I do realize he is right, and that he has my best interests at heart, and I have no wish to put myself in danger."

"Or to risk his disapproval," Mrs. Tanner muttered.

"I beg your pardon?" Lizzy asked, offended. "What care I for anyone's approval, especially his?"

Mrs. Tanner just looked at her, a single eyebrow raised.

"Oh, very well," Lizzy sighed. "I care very much for his approval, bothersome man that he is."

"I am still not certain why you are so reluctant to admit it," Mrs. Tanner laughed. "He is clearly very fond of you, so you needn't fear that he doesn't return your affections."

"My affections! Laura! You are clearly functioning under some sort of misapprehension. I feel admiration for Mr. Welton, and certainly respect, but… Wait. You believe he is fond of me?" Lizzy asked far too eagerly. Something suspiciously like hope leapt inside her before she could suppress it.

Mrs. Tanner was still chuckling. "Oh, Heavens, Olivia. Must you even ask?"

Lizzy blushed at the superiority in Mrs. Tanner's voice. "The situation between myself and Mr. Welton is rather… unique, and not only because of our recent troubles. I find it quite difficult to understand him—I always have, apparently—and it is more than difficult to trust my own impressions of his feelings."

"What is so hard to understand? You clearly mean a great deal to him."

"I know. That is, I know he felt strongly for me not so very long ago, or believed he did, but he has been so aloof these past two days. Sometimes I find him watching me still, as he used to do, but he is so stiff again, so formal and distant, that I find myself wondering whether I only imagined the tender, caring man I had come to… appreciate during our abduction. Perhaps he only feels that I am a responsibility now, a burden even."

"You, my dear friend, are very silly."

Lizzy glared at the young woman. "If you only knew how things have been between us, Laura, you might understand my confusion better."

"Then tell me. I promise to keep every word to myself."

"It is a long story."

"We have all afternoon."

Somehow, through the two days of her stay in Islington, through long mornings and afternoons sharing conversation with Mrs. Tanner, Lizzy had managed to keep the story of her connection to Mr. Darcy to herself. She was uncertain why she had not spoken of it—it was not as if she feared Mrs. Tanner would tell anyone who mattered—but something about the idea of sharing their history made her uncomfortable. Perhaps it was simply that she had realized how very foolish, how very judgmental, she had been from the first moment of their acquaintance, and she feared that in the retelling, she would be even more clearly confronted with her own prejudice.

"Well," she began most reluctantly, "I suppose I could give you the shortened version, as the story is long but not terribly interesting to anyone besides myself."

"You may start with the shortened version," Mrs. Tanner smiled, "but I am sure to ask all sorts of questions if you leave out too much."

"Ha ha, Laura. You are so terribly charming."

Mrs. Tanner just grinned.

Then, with another dramatic sigh, Lizzy began, "Mr. Darcy…er, Mr. Welton and I met at an assembly. He was a visitor to our neighborhood, and he and his friend attended, along with his friend's sisters. Only Mr. Welton's friend—we shall call him Mr. Beauregard—was pleased to be there. He was immediately drawn to my elder sister, Janet, who is wonderfully sweet and beautiful, and they spent much of the evening together in company. Mr. Welton, however, was especially displeased by the evening and the gathered company, and he made his disapproval quite clear.

"General attempts were made to engage him, but he handily rebuffed all overtures of friendship. At one point, I was sitting off to the side somewhat near to where Mr. Welton was glowering out over the room, and Mr. Beauregard approached his friend to encourage him to dance. Mr. Welton was unimpressed by the request, and when Mr. Beauregard attempted to convince him by pointing me out as a prospective dance partner, his response was…"

Lizzy was interrupted by a sharp, irregular knocking at the kitchen door.

"Don't forget where you are," Mrs. Tanner said, pointing at her and attempting to look intimidating as she stood and crossed into the kitchen. "I have the feeling things were just about to become interesting."

From Lizzy's seat, she could just see the kitchen door, so she stood and moved to the side, out of sight from the doorway. Mrs. Tanner had several friends on the street, and at least one of them had knocked at the door each day, coming to gossip or chat. So far, Mrs. Tanner had managed to keep them all out with the excuse that her cousin was not feeling well, but that excuse would not hold the nosey ladies of Islington for much longer.

She heard the sound of the door swinging open, but instead of offering her usual cheerful greeting, Mrs. Tanner breathed in sharply. Her voice was anxious as she asked, "What are _you_ doing here?"

A tenor voice very similar to Young Mr. Tanner's answered, although it was obvious that the speaker was not Mrs. Tanner's husband by the gruffness with which he spoke. "Haven't I a right to come visit my own dear family every now and again?"

"Um… well…" Mrs. Tanner hedged, "if you'll remember, the last time you visited, Grandfather did specifically request that you not come by for some time…"

Lizzy stepped back where she could see the doorway just in time to watch the door swing open, the handle pulling right out of Mrs. Tanner's grip, and slam against the back wall. A dripping-wet man strode in, a man who was so obviously related to the Mr. Tanners by his stature and the shape of his face that Lizzy needed no introducing to recognize Mr. Roland Tanner, the well-known gambler and general troublemaker.

Lizzy jerked back out of sight. Mr. Darcy had made it clear that he wanted Mr. Roland Tanner to have as little information as possible regarding their circumstances, and he had intended to keep Lizzy a secret entirely. She began to edge around the room, avoiding the view from the kitchen. If she could just dart around the corner when he was not looking her way, she could reach the bedrooms and disappear. She knew that was what Mr. Darcy would want her to do.

However, just as she was preparing to peek around the corner and check his position, she refocused her attention on what the two in the kitchen were saying.

"No," Mrs. Tanner said, her voice high-pitched, "of course, there is nothing wrong with making a cup of tea for my father-in-law, but I am certain you are a busy man, and as neither your son nor your father is here for you to visit just now, I cannot imagine you have any desire to stay."

"On the contrary, my dear, I am perfectly content to wait until they return, as long as I can enjoy your cheerful company." The sound of a chair squeaking told her that he had sat down.

Lizzy felt gooseflesh rise on her arms at the tone in his voice as he said _cheerful company_. There was nothing overtly wrong with his words, but she could immediately sense at least one of the reasons why Mrs. Tanner was so unhappy in his presence.

"I am sorry," Mrs. Tanner answered shrilly, "but I have much to do today, and I was just going out to the market myself. I have a long day of shopping ahead. I shall be happy to walk you out."

Mrs. Tanner moved across the kitchen, and Lizzy recognized the sounds of fabric swishing, probably her taking off her apron and beginning to tie on her bonnet. Then chair legs scraped, and Lizzy heard another gasp.

"You needn't go just yet," said Mr. Tanner. "Come sit with me for a spell."

His words were terribly polite, but Lizzy heard a threat beneath them.

She could not stay out of sight, no matter what Mr. Darcy would advise, not when her presence might aid Mrs. Tanner.

She moved to the doorway, stepping with confidence despite her anxiety, and entered the kitchen, looking down at the forgotten sewing in her hands. "Laura, would you mind showing me that knot again? I just cannot quite… Oh! I did not realize you had a visitor! Good afternoon."

Lizzy caught sight of Mr. Tanner's hand wrapped tightly around Mrs. Tanner's upper arm, working to drag her toward the table, before he reacted to Lizzy's presence and released his hold. He was suddenly all charm, a wide, ingratiating smile on his face. He was obviously not young—at least in his mid-forties—but his face was still well-shaped like his son's. He was a handsome enough man, if you could ignore the somewhat bedraggled state of his sopping apparel, and his grin was quite boyish and friendly.

"Why, Laura," he said, stepping forward and sweeping Lizzy a jaunty bow, "you didn't tell me you already had company. How lovely."

He was so cordial that Lizzy beamed back at him automatically for a moment before noticing the way Mrs. Tanner was rubbing at her upper arm, just on the spot where he had gripped her so tightly. Her eyes were wide and frightened, and she could not stop staring at the man from behind.

"I'm Roland Tanner, Laura's father-in-law."

It was nearly three o'clock, the time that Old Mr. Tanner and Mr. Darcy had returned the previous day after waiting at The Iron Ox. All she had to do was keep the man away from Mrs. Tanner for a few more minutes. As no one else was there, it was her job to help her friend.

Lizzy did not even hesitate. During her journey with Lord Smythe and the others, she had been reminded of her penchant for playacting, and she knew now was the time to put it to good use.

"Oh, Mr. Tanner," Lizzy said, keeping her eyes wide and innocent, "I would never have believed you were Laura's father-in-law if you hadn't told me. You look much more like her Jacob's brother!"

The man's grin grew wider, and he came toward Lizzy, reaching out to take her hand. He held it familiarly between both of his. "You are too kind, Miss…"

"Oh! Olivia Beatty, Mr. Tanner. But…" She imagined herself as Lydia, as if Lydia's soul had entered her body. She pointed her face down at the ground but raised her eyes and batted her eyelashes a few times. "But you may call me Olivia."

"Olivia," he said with relish, "it is an absolute pleasure to meet you."

Then he drew her hand up to his lips and kissed it fervently. He was perfectly gentlemanly—surprisingly so, for a groomsman's son—but Lizzy felt somehow violated by the kiss. She kept her expression eager.

"Did you come to visit Laura and Mr. Tanner?" Lizzy asked. "Forgive me for being in the way, but I am visiting from Shropshire, so I cannot leave, especially with all this rain."

"'Tis no problem at all," he assured her, squeezing her hand again once before finally releasing it. Lizzy wanted to wipe it on the side of her dress, but she did not dare. "I received a message to come and see my father, so I am here until he arrives, which, I will admit, I begin to hope will not be for some time. After all, the presence of _two_ lovely ladies is enough to keep a man anywhere."

Mrs. Tanner smiled weakly, but Mr. Tanner was too busy enjoying Lizzy's coy smiles to notice. "I believe that Grandfather meant for you to visit him elsewhere. If you hurry, perhaps you could still meet him in time."

Mr. Tanner turned to his daughter-in-law and very deliberately removed his greatcoat, pushing it into her hands. He kept tight rein on his voice as he asked with extreme politeness, "And do you happen to know anything about the particular favor he seeks, Laura? Having not spoken to my father for some time, I wasn't sure why he wanted to see me now."

So that was why he had come here. He wanted to intimidate Laura into talking to him before he was directly before Old Mr. Tanner.

"It is men's business, I suppose," Mrs. Tanner replied, going to hang Mr. Tanner's coat on one of the hooks and busying herself with the tea pot. "I know nothing of it."

"That's too bad," Mr. Tanner replied. His expression was light, but Lizzy thought she could still sense some danger under his tone. "I shall just have to wait here then for his return." He turned back to Lizzy, wide grin back in place, and gestured toward the table.

She took the seat he indicated on the long bench, and it required all of her courage not to lean away as he sat down rather nearer to her than she would prefer. "Tell me about yourself, Olivia, and why you are visiting our Laura."

"Oh, I am Laura's cousin! I was unable to come to her wedding, but I finally managed to talk Papa into letting me come visit her here, and I must say I think this is much better. Now we may spend all sorts of time together without all the bother and fuss of a wedding."

"And are you enjoying your stay in Islington? This part of town is rather… quiet."

"It has been wonderful, except for the rain!" Lizzy replied, full of enthusiasm. "Laura and I have ever so much fun together. I must admit that your father has been a touch gruff, and Laura's husband is rather more serious than I should like my own husband to be, but they've been more than welcoming."

"Yes, Father is a right old tyrant when he wants to be, and Jacob has turned out rather too much like him, but so long as they are being kind to you, I'll not quibble. Have you seen the sights of the town during your stay?"

Lizzy managed to keep up a light conversation with Mr. Tanner for several long minutes, all the while imagining herself as a more cheerful version of Lydia. They spoke of London primarily, and Lizzy had to dodge several offers of company from the man, given in various ways. She began to wish she had never flirted with him so openly, afraid that rebuffing him now would draw his ire, but at the time, she had only had a few seconds to act, and it had seemed the surest method of removing his attention from Mrs. Tanner.

"You give yourself too little credit, Olivia," Mr. Tanner was saying, lowering his voice and leaning in far too near. "I can imagine no greater privilege than escorting you and dear Laura to Hyde Park. You simply cannot return to Shropshire without at least walking for a few minutes with the upper crust of London's high society! And the flowers have just begun blooming. 'Twould be such a shame to miss it."

"But sir," Lizzy said, pretending to look down demurely while casting a glance toward Mrs. Tanner, who was standing at the window nearest the back door, staring hard through the rain. Lizzy knew she was hoping to catch sight of the men returning. Lizzy caught her eye and saw her pained, fearful expression. "I am not fit to walk with the rich folk. This is my best dress, but it's nothing like good enough for Hyde Park."

She was glad Mr. Darcy had thought to purchase her two ready-made dresses from a nearby shop that matched her claims of being Mrs. Tanner's cousin, a boot maker's daughter. She had borrowed one of Mrs. Tanner's gowns the first day, but it had felt like a terrible imposition. The new gowns were very rough compared to her own clothing back in Kent, but Mrs. Tanner had declared them very pretty, and she had been glad she had not begun to complain about them aloud.

"And besides," she added as he began to argue, "Laura has so much to do here, taking care of her own house and family, that there is no time for outings so far from home."

"My dear Olivia," Mr. Tanner said, leaning in ever closer and moving the hand he had been resting on the table across the rough wood next to hers, "your face and form are so pleasing to look upon that no one who sees you will care about your dress. And I believe you are correct—Laura is a busy little bee. But you should not be kept from enjoying yourself just because she has to get the supper on." He stretched out his index finger and, after catching her eyes, he ran the tip of his finger along the top of her closed fist and up onto her wrist. "I believe that you and I would enjoy the outing even more if it was just the two of us, don't you think?"

Lizzy wanted to scream, to cry out and jump away in offense and distaste. There was _nothing_ appealing about this touch, about the open evaluation in his eyes as he raked them down her figure and back up. Lizzy had told herself that the feelings Mr. Darcy had evoked in her with his nearness during their abduction, with his gentle touch, had been the natural results of such closeness, that they would have occurred with anyone. But the deep revulsion engendered by Mr. Tanner's touch left Lizzy's conclusions as formless as smoke.

She blushed fiercely and looked away from him, praying that he would interpret her reaction as bashfulness instead of disgust, and it was incredibly difficult to leave her hand where it was instead of recoiling.

"Well, what do you say?" Mr. Tanner whispered, his breath making gooseflesh on her neck.

She opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by the sound of the kitchen door swinging open. Mr. Darcy dashed in, tossing a sopping newspaper, which had apparently been his only shelter from the downpour, back onto the stoop before moving to hold the door open for Old Mr. Tanner to follow him in. He looked around the room as he stood there, and the moment he noticed Lizzy and Mr. Roland Tanner sitting so closely, the haughty, indifferent mask that she so hated rolled into place.

"Roland!" Old Mr. Tanner barked, slamming the door with such force that a pot hanging on the wall rattled off its hook. "Get away from that girl! What are you doing here?"

"Good afternoon to you, too, Father."

Slowly, almost lazily, Mr. Roland Tanner ran his finger once more across Lizzy's hand before sighing, stretching, and standing.

"In the parlor! Now!" Old Mr. Tanner's face was as red as a cherry, and he motioned toward the room with his cane so sharply that Lizzy wondered whether the man thought he was holding a sword.

With even more pronounced slowness, Mr. Roland Tanner leaned back down over Lizzy. She felt the tiny, sharp hairs on his jaw brush against her cheek as he whispered into her ear, "Do not worry, love. We'll manage that little outing, whether my father likes it or not. I'm not a man to have his pleasures denied."

Lizzy knew she should look up, should wink or blow him a kiss, but she was perfectly unable to do it. She had reached the limit of her playacting ability, and any hope she had of being able to accept more of this man's attentions had flown the coop the moment Mr. Darcy had walked in. That look on his face! She kept her gaze down, knowing she was still blushing, and prayed that he thought she was being coy.

A few more seconds passed as Mr. Roland Tanner strode into the parlor like a rooster and Old Mr. Tanner followed him in grim, angry silence, his wet shoes squelching all the way through the kitchen. Lizzy expected Mr. Darcy to follow them, but he did not. He remained standing motionless just in front of the door.

"What on earth…?" Mr. Darcy finally began as the parlor door closed, his voice as taut as a bowstring.

"Oh, Livvy!" Mrs. Tanner whispered suddenly, rushing across the room and flinging herself down beside Lizzy, throwing her arms around her. "You are incredible! You saved me, I am sure of it!"

"Nonsense," Lizzy replied quietly. "I only did what any friend would have done under the circumstances."

"I shan't have that! Most friends would have marched into the room and stood guard, an act that would surely have ruined everything for your and Mr. Welton's plans. But you! You not only kept him from treating me so villainously, but you have now made it far more likely for him to agree to give aid. Making him angry would have made everything so much worse, for you and for me! Oh, you were brilliant!"

"Wait," Mr. Darcy said, finally stepping closer. "I do not understand. Olivia was… helping you?" His boots squelched and he looked down, realized that he was dripping all over the kitchen floor, and backed up to hang his greatcoat. Then he approached and sat across the table from them, leaning forward. "Tell me what happened."

Lizzy risked a quick glance at Mr. Darcy's face, but when she saw the thick mask still in place, she began a focused study of her own hands. Mrs. Tanner launched into a retelling of the events of the past twenty or thirty minutes, although to Lizzy they had felt like sixteen years, and hearing it told so starkly surprised her.

"And so Livvy sat there, apparently as brainless as a bird, keeping his attention easily just by batting her eyelashes a few times. But when he became so bold, Livvy, oh, I thought I might be able to cross the room and kick him after all. What on earth was he whispering to you?"

Lizzy could not quite suppress a shudder. "Your father-in-law pretends to be a gentleman, Laura, but he is most definitely not one. He was… he wanted me to accompany him on an outing _alone_ , and he made very clear implications regarding the nature of what would occupy us."

Mr. Darcy slid back his chair and shot to his feet, his face thunderous. He turned toward the parlor door, but before he could move away, Lizzy reached out urgently and caught his hand. It was surprisingly cold.

"No, sir!" she hissed, tugging him back down into his seat. "You cannot go in there and call him out! I spent the longest half-hour of my life trying to keep us on his good side so that he will help us. If you go in there bellowing at him, it will all have been for naught!"

"But he was so familiar! He treated you like a tavern wench!"

"That cannot matter," Mrs. Tanner said quietly from her seat beside Lizzy. "If you anger him, he will not help you."

Mr. Darcy sat in quiet thought for a few more moments, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the tabletop. Only in noticing that did Lizzy realize that she was still holding his other, their fingers resting comfortably together at the center of the table. Her middle suddenly felt gooey, and she found herself unable to look away. Apparently it _was_ only Mr. Darcy who could have such an effect on her.

"Very well," he said gravely. "I will not undo your work. If we lose his aid, I have no idea where else we will turn for the information we seek. But Olivia, we must be extraordinarily careful now. You must _not_ allow yourself to be alone with him—not _ever_ —and you must both lock the doors here at all times when we are gone. A memory of flirtation will keep him cheerful long enough for what we need, but he may take all sorts of liberties without your permission if any further private contact is allowed."

"I know," Lizzy answered, trying to hide the slight tremble in her voice. She felt how near she had come to danger today. She still did not know what she would have said earlier to put him off but keep him interested. She laughed, trying to brush off her nerves. "My experience in these matters extends only as far as watching my youngest sister entertain her crowds of admirers. I have no idea how to dangle the bait yet keep it fully out of reach."

Mr. Darcy stared at her intently for only a second or two before his horrible, haughty mask crumbled and he smiled at her, squeezing her hand. "You have not, have you? You are not a flirt, nor a temptress. You do not wear masks to draw men in. You are simply yourself. That philanderer has no idea that he saw absolutely _nothing_ of the truth of who you are, that he is attracted to only a shallow façade and left ignorant of the radiance underneath."

Lizzy could not prevent a slow, awed smile from sliding onto her face. It was terribly ironic that a man who relied so much on a public mask to shield himself from the world should claim that he despised pretense and find himself drawn to a lady who rarely tried to hide the truth of her mind or her heart from the people around her, even when she should. But she found that she did not mind the irony.

Every day, despite the disconcerting distance between them of late, Lizzy was coming to know him better, this man who had first seemed such an open book and then become such a mystery. He hid himself behind that mask, she decided, because the truth of his real self was so stark, so earnest, that he had to protect it quite aggressively from the arrows of society. He was a man of deep feeling, but whereas most gentleman of society had learned to deaden themselves to emotion, he simply covered it up—and thereby, remained wholly himself under that disguise.

"Ahem," Mrs. Tanner said pointedly, drawing her attention. Lizzy colored, realizing that she had been grinning foolishly at Mr. Darcy for several seconds. "You were going to join the men in the parlor, Mr. Welton?"

"Of course." He only then realized her fingers were still clutched in his, and he released her as if he had been burned. All the warmth in Lizzy's chest flickered out, like a fire doused by a bucket. He stood, his expression indifferent once again. "It would be best for the both of you to be out of sight when Mr. Tanner is ready to leave."

Lizzy and Mrs. Tanner nodded as one and began to gather the sewing things they would need to occupy themselves productively in the back bedrooms. "That is all right. Olivia and I have a conversation to finish anyway."

Lizzy tried to smile at her friend, but she did not quite manage it. Mr. Darcy raised an eyebrow but did not ask for an explanation.

"Be careful, sir," Lizzy said suddenly, turning to him before passing by. "He will recognize you once you are speaking together. He will not be miserly with information of your whereabouts, should someone ask."

"Yes." He leaned in and spoke quietly. "This reliance on such a fellow may have disastrous consequences. But we have thought of no other way, so we must trust that all will work out as it is meant to do."

"I know. But still… just be careful."

"I always am."

He moved as if to reach out to her, perhaps to comfort her, but he hesitated then simply bowed and strode into the parlor. Lizzy wanted to call after him that he ought to get out of his wet things before entering, but she knew it was wisest to address the issues Mr. Roland Tanner presented as soon as possible, so she said nothing. But she and Mrs. Tanner would make sure there was a warm pot of tea available when they were finished. And perhaps she could lay out clothes for Mr. Darcy and Old Mr. Tanner next to the fire, so they would be warm when they were ready to change. And she could…

"Come along, Livvy," Mrs. Tanner said, tugging her arm as she moved toward the back bedrooms. "No more gazing after Mr. Welton. You have a story that you absolutely _must_ finish telling."

* * *

Colonel Fitzwilliam stretched his broad shoulders underneath the restrictive stitching on the shoulders of Mr. Nelson's coat. He despised the narrow shoulders currently in fashion, but as Nelson's clothing fit well enough otherwise, he knew he should not complain. He directed his mount to the right, and they turned off Coxton's main thoroughfare into the small side street where lay the entrance to The Blue Hound.

He had spent the previous two days preparing for this evening, surreptitiously interviewing a few of the neighborhood gentry with whom he was acquainted (which had yielded little), going through Lady Catherine's accounts with Nelson (which had yielded even less), and badgering Lady Catherine for more information (which had yielded absolutely nothing).

He ticked off in his mind the whole sum of new knowledge he had gained from his two days of hunting. One, he knew that in the last two years, Lady Catherine had not made any large payments to Lord Smythe. The only truly outrageous expenditures had been for various medicines for Anne, most of which were prescribed by that charlatan Doctor Spencer. Lady Catherine's pin money, the only expense not listed out in detail, was of a surprisingly modest amount, a result, Mr. Nelson thought, of the slowing of the estate's income over the past decade. Lady Catherine had hired a series of stewards in those years who had cheated her or otherwise mismanaged the estate, which was apparently why Darcy had stepped in and hired Nelson himself a twelve-month or so ago. It had taken the man all that time to reconcile the estate books.

Two, he knew that while Rosings' neighbors all had strong opinions about Lady Catherine's role in the county and officious personal mannerisms, none of them knew anything truly bad of her. She was simultaneously revered and despised, as were many of the Ton in their home counties, but she was not a source of scandal or gossip, nor was she feared or hated. Even her tenants and the local villagers saw her as more an irritant than anything else. There were no stories among them of being pressed beyond their means or disproportionately increased rents.

And three, he knew that… well, unfortunately there was no number three. That was all he had managed to learn. Thus, he had come to The Blue Hound tonight absolutely determined to discover something of use regarding their investigation of Lord Smythe and his associates.

Fitzwilliam blew out one last irritated gust of air before pasting on his most humble-yet-charming expression and greeting the innkeeper's wife. It was only a matter of seconds before he was being ushered into the dim back room with a sloshing tankard in his hand.

The company seemed much the same as before. Although some of the faces had changed, they all wore that same hungry expression, and their eyes were fixed on the table, where three gentlemen and a lady were playing whist. It was almost jarring to Fitzwilliam to recognize the game they played. He was used to seeing several small tables arranged around the room, either during a soiree or at a gentlemen's club, where all those who wished to play could be accommodated, but here there was a single game with at least a dozen observers around the outside. The only conversation between the players was related to the game, and although there was some chatter between the spectators, most of the attention remained on the game and the notes changing hands with each turn.

Fitzwilliam moved close enough to see that the game was nearly at an end, and he decided to take the opportunity to more particularly observe the company rather than interrupt by jostling in for a better view or attempting to take a seat at the table.

Both of the gentlemen to whom he had spoken during his previous visit were players in the game, and the lady with the revealing bodice and biblically "wanton eyes" was one of the spectators. Smythe's agent was there again, as Fitzwilliam suspected he was every night, but this time he seemed less intent on the happenings at the table and more intent on the dark-haired lady who was currently perched on his lap. Not that Fitzwilliam could really blame the man, given the length of her décolletage and the excessively friendly manner in which she was whispering in his ear.

He was uncertain whether the lady's attentions would make it more or less possible for him to extract any useful information from the agent, but he suspected that either way, he would wish to be placed near the man, so he waited patiently, analyzing the rest of the patrons until the game ended amidst groaning and laughter and the silent tension was finally diffused. As the game's most unfortunate player stood, accepted a written accounting from the agent, and took a rather subdued leave, Fitzwilliam slipped into his seat and accepted greetings from the other players.

"Mr. Barker," the agent said, finally dragging his attention away from his companion long enough to notice the newcomer, "I wondered whether we would be seeing you again on your journey home. Was your cross-country dash successful?"

"Indeed. I managed to arrive in Dover early the next morning with enough time to not only enjoy a short respite but also to win back enough at the tables to pay our mutual friend in full. If I ever doubted that miracles could happen, I am now a believer."

"You must be an impressive horseman, sir, to have navigated the roads so quickly on such a dark night. But I am pleased for you. The older a debt grows, the heavier it becomes."

"As well I know. But its payment signals the turning over of a new leaf for me, sir," Fitzwilliam said, trying to fill his tone with just the right of determined desperation. "No more credit at the tables—no more debts of honor."

The man nodded with only a slight expression of doubt then turned back to watch his companion exchanging funds with a disgruntled lady standing beside her. He comforted her after her loss, sliding his arms more tightly around her waist and murmuring something against her ear, an action that elicited a jaunty giggle.

"I can no longer afford to be so reckless." Fitzwilliam spoke with deep gravity, hoping he could catch the man's notice again.

"Any particular reason?" the agent asked absently, his gaze following the trail of his finger along the lady's collarbone.

"My wife—she is with child now. I cannot leave my progeny a legacy of debt."

The agent made a murmur of agreement but then leaned forward and whispered something else to his lady, his attention entirely lost.

Fitzwilliam cursed internally. Apparently the lady was going to prove more of a hindrance than he had suspected.

He played for nearly two hours, drawing as many of the other patrons into conversation as he could, hoping to ingratiate himself with them, wondering if perhaps they would prove informative, and hoping against hope that the lady would be called away and leave him to converse more freely with the agent. Unfortunately his efforts were useless. She was too enthralling. Fitzwilliam had not even gleaned enough knowledge of that man to discover how to choose a course of action, whether friendship or threat would be a more effective tool. He was willing to spend as many evenings as necessary in this manner, and he knew that the lady could not possibly be present every night, but it would not be long before his story of stopping in town to rest from his journey became suspect. His time was limited, as much for Darcy's sake as his own.

It was just past midnight when Fitzwilliam's opportunity finally came.

The agent and his companion had grown increasingly familiar with one another as the lady had imbibed far more than she ought, and they had moved away from the table some minutes before, their murmured conversation interrupted frequently by heated kisses and sighs, none of which seemed to bother anyone at the table besides himself. They seemed quite inured to it, in fact, a reality that probably meant such behavior was not entirely unheard of among their company. It made sense, really. Ladies muddled with drink and excitement were often easily persuaded to offer a man far more than they would in the light of day.

Fitzwilliam wondered who this lady was that she was willing to behave in such a questionable fashion so publically. She was dressed well, clearly of good birth, but her bets had been low and infrequent, her attention mostly on the agent, so he was uncertain whether she was a person of true means. He had tried to get a good look at her, to see whether he might recognize her from some of his visits to Lady Catherine's neighbors, but her face was often obscured by her proximity to the agent, and the lighting in the small room made it difficult to see details of anyone's countenance.

Eventually Fitzwilliam stood, making the excuse of stretching his legs for a round or two, and after refilling his mug at the side table and chatting for a moment with the gentlemen gathered around the racing forms, he positioned himself near enough to attempt to overhear the agent's conversation without seeming to intrude.

"But I must go," the lady whispered, her words slurred.

"You must stay," the agent replied, his voice silky. "Your great-aunt will not notice your absence until morning."

"She wakes so wretchedly early. If I go with you, I may not return home in time."

"Nonsense," he argued. "We will be cautious. And it is not as if we shall fall asleep, pet. We shall be far too busy for that."

Her reply was a lush giggle, followed by more kissing sounds. Fitzwilliam kept his head carefully turned away, hiding the disgust on his face.

What a falsehood. The girl was far beyond tipsy—sleep was an inevitability—and the chances of the man bothering to wake her in time for her to return home were slim. Ten-to-one, once he had conquered her, he would be perfectly happy for her to be caught, making it impossible for her to ask more of him. After all, what gentlemanly father would want his daughter marrying the agent of a gambling game in a run-down tavern? She would be whisked far away in hopes that her reputation could be salvaged, and a future husband could be very well compensated to ignore her lack of maidenhood.

Fitzwilliam wished there were something he could do to protect the foolish woman. Although, given her behavior in such a public setting, perhaps his protection was unnecessary. He had been unable to examine her closely, but she had not seemed particularly young, so it was possible that this was a long-standing behavior, even a knowing choice. He sighed. It was out of his hands anyway.

Fitzwilliam's eye was suddenly drawn to the heavy back door on the far wall, the entrance through which some of the more illustrious players tended to enter and exit. It swung open slowly, and a man stepped in, an older man with unkempt, graying hair, and a severe expression. He shuffled through the door in a graceless manner, his cloak swaying to reveal the clothes of a servant, probably a groom. He cast around the room for someone in particular, and his expression shifted to significant unhappiness when his eyes fell on the agent's companion.

It took her a moment to notice him, and upon doing so, she released a disappointed sigh. "I must go now."

"Stay."

"I cannot. Not tonight."

"Tomorrow then. Promise me. I will end the gaming early, and I swear there will be plenty of time to enjoy before dawn."

The lady started to shake her head, but after another round of passionate persuasive efforts, she acquiesced. "Very well. Tomorrow."

Only then did the man release her. "Until tomorrow then, my lady."

She teetered slightly before catching her balance and making her way toward the door. She glanced back, blowing the agent a kiss over her shoulder, then joined her disapproving servant in the light cast by an awkwardly placed candelabra beside the door. The older man helped her settle a hooded cloak, his eyes sweeping back absently around the room.

He paused in surprise when his gaze landed on Fitzwilliam. He turned away quickly, but not before Fitzwilliam straightened, a shock of recognition lancing through him.

Locken! The servant was Locken, Mr. and Mrs. Collins' man.

A terrible certainty began gnawing at Fitzwilliam's insides. Was it possible? The idea was entirely horrifying, and yet, it made a perfectly twisted sort of sense. But how could he have missed it? How, seated so near her for so long, could he have been so blind?

He had to know. His eyes scanned the room, the table, the bench upon which she had sat. There!

"My lady!" Fitzwilliam called out, drawing the attention of most of the room as he strode swiftly to the bench, picked up a pair of gloves, and crossed to the back door. He moved beside her as she turned to see him from under the edges of her hood.

She reached out slowly. "Thank you, sir."

Her eyes met his for the barest second before she turned gracefully and followed Locken out the door. Fitzwilliam watched her go, frozen in shock and dismay.

"She is quite the lady," said the agent from just behind Fitzwilliam's shoulder.

"Is she?" Fitzwilliam asked, struggling to make his voice sound casual.

"Not the loveliest I've ever seen," the agent mused, "but her… _willingness_ more than makes up for that."

"Here, here," Fitzwilliam answered cheerfully, trying to shake off his emotions.

The men laughed together and returned to the table. The agent remained in an excellent mood for the next half hour, and after pushing all other thoughts to the side, Fitzwilliam took full advantage, chatting comfortably with the man about everything from preferred beverages to Kent's local politics. More importantly, he managed to learn several important facts: Lord Smythe had plans to remain on the continent for some time, that he was rumored to own an estate somewhere in Yorkshire, and that the agent seemed somewhat more familiar than ought to be expected with Rosings and its occupants.

That last fact seemed particularly significant to Fitzwilliam, and had he been able to stay and converse longer, he would have discovered all he could about it, but as it was, his eyes kept straying to the back door and the watch in his waistcoat pocket. Finally he stood, throwing down a final disappointing hand and declaring himself too unlucky to continue playing that night. He bade his farewells, implying that his travel plans were uncertain and that he might return again the following evening, and left the back room with as little haste as he could manage.

However, upon exiting, his pace became nearly frantic, and once on the road toward Rosings, he traveled as quickly as he could without laming his horse on an unseen rut. He was only a mile or two from Hunsford when he caught up with the small curricle driven by Locken, and he slowed his anxious steed to keep pace with it, although neither he nor the cart's occupants spoke.

As they pulled into the parsonage's small yard, Locken moved to assist the lady down from the curricle, but Fitzwilliam was already there, waving him away. At a nod from her, Locken went to unhitch the horse. Her touch on Fitzwilliam's arm as she descended was light, and as soon as she was on the ground, she released him and began crossing the yard back toward the lane instead of turning into the house, where Fitzwilliam could see a single candle still lit on the windowsill.

He followed her uncertainly across the lane, through some long grass, and toward a low hill.

"Please, madam, where are you…?"

"Shhh."

He shushed, resigned to following her closely in case of a stumble. Her steps, however, were quick and certain, and he realized that she had not imbibed nearly as much as she had pretended. That somewhat eased his immediate concerns.

They worked their way over the low hill and finally stopped against a low pasture fence on the far side. Fitzwilliam watched her warily, but all she did was lean against the precarious rail, her eyes trailing over the wide pasture and toward the trees on the far side.

"'Tis a pretty prospect in the daytime, but I believe there is even more beauty here at night. Although, I admit, it is more impressive when the moon is full."

"Yes, very pretty."

She sighed. "You may speak freely now, Colonel. I simply did not wish for your scolding to be overheard by other members of my household."

Fitzwilliam opened his mouth to speak and was surprised when no words came out. Now that he had his opportunity, he was uncertain what to say, how to express all the thoughts chasing around inside his head.

"You are angry," she offered mildly.

"Of course I am angry," he barked, half-laughing at her audacity.

"Two days ago, I told you that I wanted to help, that I felt responsible and was willing to do whatever was required to help Lizzy."

"And the first step in doing said duty was to place yourself in not only physical danger but also moral?"

"Oh, please, sir. Do not be so didactic. This endeavor was not conducted out of pleasure. I assessed the situation, considered what might be the best method of extracting information from an unknown gentleman, and settled upon this set of manners, dress, and behavior as the most likely to convince a man of his type to confide more in me than he intended. Tonight was my third night visiting Coxton, and I believe I have had some significant success in obtaining important information. Are you telling me that my method was ineffective?"

Fitzwilliam, as usual, had no counter-argument. Her approach had been perfectly intelligent. "No, Mrs. Collins, you were not wrong, but there are other ways, methods that are safer for you, your reputation, and your family."

"My reputation," she laughed lightly. "Come now, Colonel. You of all people should be quite aware that my reputation is in no danger. Not even you, as familiar as we have become with one another, recognized me in that room tonight, not until Locken entered. If I were to meet Mr. Monsdale face-to-face in the middle of Coxton one afternoon, if I were to strike up a polite conversation with him, he would still never recognize me. My dress, my manner, even this paint on my face—they created a whole other person. I am not afraid, and even if I were, I cannot think that my behaviors could harm me any more than my husband's stupidity already has."

"Monsdale? Is that the agent's name? What if he had discovered your true motives? What if he had felt threatened and hurt you? Or worse, what if he had grown so amorous that you had been unable to escape him? Drunken men can be difficult to disengage."

"He does not drink. His oath to refrain from all alcohol when at the table is part of his contract with Lord Smythe."

"Still!" Fitzwilliam was growing exasperated quickly. "You could not have any guarantee of safety!"

"Lizzy has no guarantee either, and as long as her safety is in question, I am willing to risk mine."

"You take too much on for the sake of friendship, madam."

It was too dark to see the expression on Mrs. Collins' face, but there was a deep frown in her voice. "You think this is all about friendship? I love Lizzy dearly, and I would do much for her, but any call made by my love for my friend is only enhanced by my sense of responsibility. It is because of my husband's intemperance that she has found herself at this extremity."

Fitzwilliam threw his hands in the air. "Then it should be your husband risking himself to aid her. Not you!"

He watched her shoulders drop, her outline in the darkness suddenly smaller. "You are not a fool, Colonel, so I cannot imagine why it is not clear to you that such a thing would be impossible."

"It is his duty, as a husband, as a cousin, and as a man of the cloth!" Fitzwilliam insisted, full of righteous indignation.

"Colonel, even were he inclined to give such aid, he would not be helpful. You know him well enough to answer this question: do you truly believe he could manage it?" She paused, waiting for an argument, one Fitzwilliam could not offer in good conscience. She continued, "No! And so, it is left up to me."

"No," he insisted stepping toward her, "it is left up to me! I told you I would take care of this."

"I am neither your wife nor your relation, sir. You have no control over me, nor any right to assume it."

Fitzwilliam found himself grinding his teeth. "But is it not my duty as a friend, both to you and to Miss Bennet, not to mention as a gentleman, to protect you? Would Miss Bennet want you to take such a risk on her behalf?"

"Lizzy trusts my intelligence enough to know I am neither reckless nor foolish. I do what is necessary."

"You mean like marrying Mr. Collins? Was that _necessary_? Was it not foolish, rather?"

Mrs. Collins stiffened and turned to the fence again, stepping further from him. He should have kept that comment back, he knew, and his chest ached at the feelings he thought she must be experiencing, but he had wanted to say it for so long, to ask her why, that he was entirely unable to rescind the question or apologize.

"I cannot imagine," he continued, his words quiet and earnest, "how a woman as bright and aware as yourself ended by marrying such a husband. You cannot have known him beforehand. You cannot have accepted him intentionally."

"But I did," she replied, her words simultaneously low and harsh. He could practically taste the bitterness in her tone. "At the time I felt it a reasonable choice. I was a spinster, Colonel, on the shelf, and when Mr. Collins offered me a home and a life and the possibility of having children, all things of which I had long before despaired, I accepted with only the barest of attention paid to his intellect."

Fitzwilliam wanted to blame her, and a part of him did, but he could not prevent the sympathy that was overwhelming him. Women were so often dependent on men for their happiness. How could he say that she should have made a different choice?

"Had you known him then as you do now, would you have married him still? Can you be happy with such a man?"

"Of course not!" she cried, her voice cracking with emotion. "Any hidden depths I had hoped to discover in his character have proven shallow. He is insipid and cowardly, and I can hardly bear to listen to his sermons on Sunday or watch the simpering way he condoles with or guides his parishioners. I…" She swallowed hard, trying to gain some calm, but the effort was useless. Her next words burst out. "Oh, how I _despise_ him!"

Fitzwilliam was silent. All these weeks, he had desired to know Mrs. Collins' true opinion of her husband, to know whether she could really be as complacent regarding his weaknesses as she appeared to be. Yet now, hearing the despair in her voice as she admitted the truth, he found himself wishing he had never provoked her to make such an admission. He felt only misery instead of triumph.

For a few moments they stood in silence, both of them turned out to look over the field but neither of them seeing anything beyond their own thoughts. Mrs. Collins drew in a cleansing breath, squared her shoulders under her cloak, and spoke with renewed calm. "And yet, he is my husband."

"How can his mere connection to you balance this account?" Fitzwilliam asked in wonder.

"I made a choice, Colonel, knowing that I must live with the consequences. I promised to be his wife in all circumstances, and discovering his weakness does not grant me clemency from my vow. We are a pair now until death do us part."

"Marriage should not be an act of resignation."

"Most of life must be an act of resignation in order to find contentment. I will live with my choices, and I will find peace in them."

Her return to such platitudes released his own passionate response. He banged his fist against the top of the fence, welcoming the sting of the rough wood against his skin. "But what of love, Mrs. Collins? Does not every person deserve to be loved, truly and deeply?"

"Few of us ever receive all that we deserve, sir, either the good or the bad," she replied stiffly. "But my family loves me, and I believe Mr. Collins loves me as deeply as he is able. That has to be enough."

"And what if there were another who cared for you?" Fitzwilliam asked, frustration causing his words to race out ahead of his thoughts.

Mrs. Collins paused a moment before replying, "You are correct. I have friends like Lizzy, many who bring light to my life. And the parishioners here need me, especially when they would otherwise have only Mr. Collins as their spiritual guide. I have found great contentment, even peace, in my service to them. It is enough. Perhaps someday, there will even be a child. That will be more than enough."

"But what if there were someone else?" Fitzwilliam persisted, no longer able to keep himself from reaching a hand out to rest on her arm. "Someone both willing and able to love you as you deserve to be loved, someone who could appreciate you for all that you are and care for you with earnest, tender devotion?"

Mrs. Collins stiffened under his hand, but she did not pull away. Instead she remained very still and spoke with gentle certainty. "I gave up on that possibility years ago, Colonel."

"You gave up too soon."

"It does not matter. I married Mr. Collins. I made my choice."

"It does not matter? I…"

"It cannot matter!" Her tone was harsh. "I cannot allow it to matter. Or else I should be unhappy all my days."

She had turned to face him, and although he could see little more than the glint of the moonlight reflected from her eyes, he felt the entreaty in her grip on as she covered his hand with hers, the barely-contained emotions roiling through her. In the seconds they stared at one another, he constructed several pleas to convince her, visions of their happy future together. He considered kissing her, drawing her into his arms and shocking her into compliance with his most errant fantasies. He wanted to speak of the adventurous, traveling life she would have as the wife of a colonel, of what a loving, devoted father he would be, and of the way society would forget their scandal after a few years abroad. But each idea, after a bare second, was discarded as hopelessly unable to overcome the inevitable ending—she would indeed be unhappy.

"You would never forgive yourself," he whispered.

She lowered her voice to match his and leaned nearer, almost laying her head on his shoulder. "There is little enough I prize about myself, sir. I am neither beautiful nor gentle. I am neither lively nor witty. I am neither intellectual nor accomplished. But I am earnest and devoted, honest and fair. I cannot lose that piece of who I am. It is _all_ that I am. The devastation of losing the good opinion of my family, my friends, and society would be nothing compared to learning to hate myself."

Fitzwilliam opened his mouth to speak then closed it. There was nothing else to say on the subject, and more words would just bring more pain and humiliation.

Mrs. Collins squeezed his arm once then pulled back to a respectable distance. "I have learned a few important things these past nights, if you would care to hear them."

It was almost more than he could bear to return to a topic that suddenly felt so distant and mundane, but he managed to sound reasonably calm. "I would, yes."

"Mr. Simon Monsdale has been Lord Smythe's Coxton agent for just over a year. Lord Smythe is an exacting employer but scrupulously fair. He does not stand for cheating amongst players or between players and agents in either direction. The entire crux of his scheme seems to stand on his honesty. When a player in debt refuses to pay an agent in a timely manner, whether their debt is small or large, the player receives one warning and a small extension—a month, usually. When the debt remains unpaid, the agent contacts Lord Smythe and his crew through a system of privately-couriered messages. The crew appears as soon as possible, usually led by the mysterious Reg, Lord Smythe's right-hand man, and pilfers enough from the empty home of the debtor to pay the debt.

"However, in cases where more credit has been extended to a person of known wealth or influence and the large amount remains unpaid, the method differs. There is usually a warning—often a small theft such as the removal of a precious set of earrings from a lady's bedchamber accompanied by a letter. If the warning is ignored or the response is otherwise undesirable (such as hiring guards), Lord Smythe himself arrives and conducts a ransoming. According to Mr. Monsdale, the abduction victim is rarely the debtor but someone who is important to them in some manner but whose absence will not cause too much trouble. There are contingencies planned in case there remains no response to the abduction, but as far as Mr. Monsdale knows, they have never been necessary."

Fitzwilliam leaned over his elbows on the fence, resting his head against the rough wood in hopes of it increasing his alertness. "But according to Darcy, Lord Smythe behaved as if, of the two of them, Miss Bennet was the preferred prisoner. That makes no sense, according to Monsdale's explanation."

"Yes, I have been considering that. It would have been far more sensible to take only Mr. Darcy. I have wondered whether perhaps once Lizzy had seen them they felt they had to take her to protect themselves."

"Possibly," he mused. "Or, given how obvious Darcy's regard is for her, they thought he would be more compliant in her presence. Really, in either case, Darcy was a strange choice. Yes, he is important to Lady Catherine, but he is also quite influential in wider society and his presence will soon be missed by more than just Rosings."

"Has Rosings yet been contacted with a ransom demand?" Mrs. Collins asked.

"None, nothing more than the warning of one in that letter. From what Darcy said, it seemed as if Smythe was in an awful hurry to get to the Continent. He must have intended to wait and write from there."

Mrs. Collins shook her head. "There is still something essential missing, something unexplained. How on earth did Lady Catherine get into Coxton frequently enough to accrue ninety-thousand pounds in debt? Mr. Monsdale says that the most he is allowed to extend to anyone, even the richest, in a one-week period is a few thousand pounds. That means several months of gambling gave rise to such a debt, and I know that Mr. Collins was not away long enough to be in Coxton more than the once each month, at least since we have been married. It makes no sense! I shall have to extract it from Mr. Monsdale tomorrow. He has been very tight-lipped about his dealings with Rosings, and he always gets a strained look on his face when anyone refers to it."

"Tomorrow?" Fitzwilliam blustered. "You cannot possibly be considering returning! You know Monsdale will not remain patient with you if you do not keep your promises to him in full."

"I would prefer not to return," Mrs. Collins admitted with obvious reluctance. "I admit that I am in a tad deeper than I had planned. But how else shall we extract the information we seek?"

Fitzwilliam was so relieved by Mrs. Collins' acquiescence that it took him a few moments to focus on solving the problem. Then, with a slight chuckle, he said, "I believe, my dear Mrs. Collins, that the time has come to go straight to the source. We must ask my aunt."

"You believe she will be more helpful than she has been up until now?" Mrs. Collins scoffed.

"Of course not. But I believe that, given the circumstances, it is time to breach the boundaries of polite society and invade her privacy, whether she wishes our invasion or not."

"I believe, sir, that this will be a job best left to you. It is one thing to deceive a gambler's agent. Searching through my husband's employer's personal documents is another."

"You are voluntarily giving up your right to assist?" Fitzwilliam asked with feigned dismay. "Are you well, Mrs. Collins?"

She laughed and turned away, beginning to cross back through the meadow the way they had come. "Well enough, Colonel. Only tired, as I suspect you are."

"Yes," he said, catching her up, "the rest can wait until tomorrow."

They crossed the meadow in silence, and when they reached the silent dooryard, Fitzwilliam stood still and watched as Mrs. Collins ducked into the small alcove leading to the kitchen door. She stopped with her hand against the door and looked back.

"I hope we are good friends, Colonel."

He began to speak, paused, then said in a slow whisper, "My dear Mrs. Collins, although the sun and the stars may pass away, my friendship is a certainty."

She released a breathy laugh and began to turn back.

"But for the record, madam, I would have you know that while you are not classically beautiful, and you may not play an instrument or cover screens or… or charm birds from their nests, you…" He trailed off, drawing in a deep breath. "I would leave you with no doubt that you are enough to make an old soldier curse the fate that brought him into your life six months too late."

He could not even see her form in the darkness of the small porch, but he imagined a thousand words in the quiet, "Goodnight, sir," that was her reply before pushing open the door and disappearing inside.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Collins," he whispered.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Thanks for all the response to this story. Here are a few quick issues to address from the comments. Yes, I misspelled a name before. Again. It's corrected now. Some of you think Charlotte is acting out of character here. Perhaps we just see her differently. She's showing more guts here than normal, as well as far less concern for society's opinion, but if you think about it, she has always been courageous as long as she thought she was doing what was necessary. She had never balked from doing what she MUST (how much nerve would it take to marry a toady like Collins?), and in this circumstance, I believe she is still doing what she believes MUST be done. And finally, I'm sorry to those of you who were hoping for that missing scene with D &E in the parlor at the end of chapter seven. I thought it seemed clear that he would just be telling her things he had already told Tanner and things Fitzwilliam had already told him, so although she didn't know them, we did. And sad to say, but at this point, we've missed several D&E private interactions-they are practically living in the same house, for Heaven's sake! But Darcy is so concerned with maintaining all the proprieties after those days of breaking every rule in existence that nearly all of their dealings since arriving in Islington are excessively polite and proprietous. And fairly tedious. Can you blame either of them for how stilted things are? Everything between them has been in constant upheaval since the moment he began his proposal-it makes perfect sense to me that it would take a few days of quiet for them to get everything sorted out. _

_There. Justifications complete. And now begins the ramp up to the ending. Shout out to my new longest chapter ever._

 _Disclaimer: I am not Jane Austen, although I can mimic a pretty good British accent (at least after listening to Jim Dale read an entire Harry Potter book)._

 _Chapter Nine_

"Slow down, Miss Beatty!" Mr. Darcy called out from a few paces behind Lizzy, his boots squelching noisily on the muddy path.

"Go faster, Mr. Welton!" Lizzy replied over her shoulder, her feet still running forward. "Or I shall beat you to the end!"

Lizzy rounded a particularly large trunk and came within sight of the final few trees in the small, artfully-planted grove. The sun was rising in a mostly-clear sky for the first time in days, and for the first time in as many days, she was outside to enjoy it. The air felt crisp and fresh and still a little wet from the rain, and her lungs expanded joyfully as she slowed to catch her breath. There were scattered patches of crocus and narcissus peeking joyfully up through the loamy soil, the shade of the grove having kept them from blooming as early as their fellows out in the sun, and Lizzy felt almost as if they had appeared there only that morning in response to her jubilant freedom.

She bent to caress one of the blossoms but stopped, entranced by a glistening drop of rain still caught on a tiny petal. Had there ever been a more effervescent morning? She turned back to the path and picked up her skirts, leaning forward to break into another run.

Her movement was arrested, however, by Mr. Darcy's hand on her elbow. She spun in surprise then found herself laughing at his dour expression.

"Miss Beatty, this is a public park, you know," he said quietly and far more gravely than Lizzy thought the situation merited. "It would not do to draw unwanted attention."

"Yes, it is a public park, sir, but it is barely late enough in the morning for the milkmaids to be about their business, let alone anyone likely to recognize either of us. And besides, it is a lovely morning, the loveliest I have seen in weeks and weeks! Am I not allowed to enjoy it fully for just a few moments?"

"It is not so early as that, Miss Beatty," Mr. Darcy replied, still frowning, although the intensity had diminished somewhat. "And yes, of course I wish you to enjoy it as fully as possible. I would, however, prefer you to do so a bit less flamboyantly."

"Am I embarrassing you, sir?" Lizzy asked, putting her hands on her hips defiantly. If he was unable to accept her running for a few yards in the secluded corner of an empty park, how had he expected to survive her being impertinent to someone influential at a ball or evening party had they been married?

The haughty disapproval left his face immediately, replaced by obvious confusion. "What do you mean? Why would I be embarrassed?"

"Because I was running and laughing?" she asked, her frustration disarmed by his earnest questions.

He shook his head, clearly uncertain whether to be annoyed at her or amused. "Miss Beatty, in other circumstances, you can run all you like and laugh as loudly as you wish. I rather enjoy running myself on occasion, particularly through Pemberley's woods, and as I believe I have pointed out to you in the past, there are few sounds I relish more than your laughter. This morning, I am simply concerned for your safety. I would prefer for us not to be noticed."

Lizzy hoped that the early sunlight had not yet filtered enough through the trees to reveal her red cheeks. Why must she always assume the worst of him? Had he not yet done enough to prove himself to her? Had the previous week taught her nothing?

"Ah. Forgive me for making such an assumption," she apologized humbly. She colored more deeply but pressed on, determined to keep to her other recent resolution, which was to be as honest in her communications with him as he always was with her. Of all his good qualities, most of which she had only recently noticed, she thought perhaps her favorite was the way he sought so earnestly for her pure understanding. "I am afraid that I fear embarrassing you, either by my personal circumstances or, much worse, through my behaviors. I am a country girl, just as Miss Bingley always said, and I despise the thought of justifying your deepest concerns about my suitability as a… friend."

Mr. Darcy opened his mouth to speak, looking deeply dismayed, but much agony of expression passed over his face before he was able to form words. "Miss Ben… Beatty, I have many regrets, too many to name, but one of the greatest is that in the moment in which I wished to confess my deepest respect and affection to you, instead I gave you cause to question my regard for you as well as your own value. I am endlessly sorry."

She found herself touched once again by his absolute sincerity. "You were right to fear as you did. My family, my connections, my own upbringing—everything about me makes any true connection between us rather repugnant." She smiled a little, trying to look amused. "It makes one wonder whether you were quite right in the head, sir. Perhaps we ought to hope that our adventures this past week have cured you of your madness."

Mr. Darcy stared at her feelingly, yet Lizzy was unable to interpret his expression. What had she hoped he would say? Any agreement with her sentiments would only bring her pain: "Yes, my dear, you are perfectly right. Thank Heavens my foolish inclination has faded now!" Yet she could not be hoping for a denial, for such could only lead to one conclusion: "'Twas no foolishness at all! I loved you fiercely, and I love you still, regardless of the disparity between us!" That idea caused a traitorous pang in her heart before she squelched it mercilessly.

Suddenly she could not bear awaiting his response. She spun and darted forward again. "But forgive me, sir, for nearly ruining this gorgeous day with difficult conversations! No more. I am determined to enjoy the sun as it rises."

"Please, wait, Miss Beatty," he said, hard on her heels. "I beg you to remain near me, for safety's sake."

She slowed just long enough for him to move beside her before grasping his arm loosely and hurrying on along the park's path, out from under the trees with their sparse new growth and past the beds of spring blooms. "Are there many flowerbeds around your home, sir? A fortnight ago, I would have concluded differently, but now I will admit that it is difficult for me to picture you in a home surrounded by ornamental hedges and symmetrical plantings like Rosings. Though I suppose all great houses are alike in that way."

"Many are," he replied thoughtfully, "and certainly Pemberley has some formal gardens. But much of Pemberley's great beauty comes from its cultivated wildness. There have been many generations of Darcy's, and D'Arcy's before that, but the one thing we have so far all agreed upon is that regardless of any changes we make or improvements we plan, the goal is always to make it feel as if the house, the gardens, the outbuildings, and all else had sprung up from the verdant wilderness almost spontaneously. Pemberley's splendor is neither its grandeur nor its wealth but its harmony."

Lizzy saw an opportunity then, one she had been afraid to take for days but was finally before her at a moment when she had the courage to take it. "Mr. Wickham told me once that of all the things he regretted about the past, one of the greatest was that he would never see Pemberley again. He said it was the most beautiful place on earth and the only real home he had ever had."

It took several seconds before Lizzy had the courage to look up at Mr. Darcy's face. She was unsurprised by the stony expression she discovered. Was he angry at her mention of his old friend? That would have been her first conclusion, but she brushed it aside this time and simply watched him, waiting for a signal of his honest reaction.

When he finally answered, his words were measured and cold. "If that were so, his case would indeed be a sad one."

He was angry, that was certain, but Lizzy pushed aside the assumption that he was angry at her and ask cautiously, "You think he was lying?"

"Nothing Wickham says can ever be taken as wholly truthful. There is always an angle somewhere, a shadowy spot in each statement where not all is as it seems."

Lizzy frowned, feeling her budding appreciation for the man before her warring with her formerly-staunch loyalty toward Mr. Wickham. "You often assert that Mr. Wickham is untrustworthy, sir. Might I know the cause of your belief? Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding."

"If only that were so," Mr. Darcy responded bleakly.

Lizzy waited for more words, but Mr. Darcy seemed to have gotten lost in his thoughts. "Sir?"

"Forgive me, Miss Beatty. I was attempting to decide… that is, in the moments before our abduction, I had decided to lay before you the whole of my connection to Mr. Wickham in the letter I had offered to you. Now, however, I find that my anger regarding his imposition back into my life has waned—your absolute belief in his trustworthiness is as much my fault as it is his—and I have lost interest in a long recitation that involves dredging up much unpleasantness."

"I admit, sir, to great curiosity regarding your account of your dealings with him. Would it help if I were to explain his version of the past?"

"I should like to know what he told you, yes."

"In essence, he claimed that although you were once close friends and he was much beloved of your father, you managed to keep from him the inheritance of a living that had been intended for him."

"I did."

Lizzy stopped walking again near a cluster of shrubbery, surprised into stillness. "You do not deny it? But you must have had a good reason!"

Mr. Darcy looked down at her, his aloofness replaced by an expression of wonder. "I cannot tell you how much it means to me, madam, that you believe that."

"What else could I believe, sir? As amiable and charming as Mr. Wickham is, I know beyond any doubt that you are a good man. He, I have come to realize since we last spoke of him, is not at all known to me, not really. Except, of course, for the fact that we had not been acquainted for more than a few hours before he proceeded to lampoon your character. And that although he claimed to have no desire to besmirch your reputation in society, he set about sharing his story of misfortune with the entire county as soon as you had quit it. Those are not, I think, points in his favor."

Mr. Darcy was still looking at her rather more intently than she found comfortable. She could not meet his gaze, and she could not ignore the disturbing bubbling sensation in her middle, but she did her best to appear unaffected.

Lizzy focused hard on the stones at her feet and began walking again, her forearm linked lightly around his. Perhaps he would not explain himself after all. Oh, how would she bear the questions in her mind for any longer?

"Wickham and I were friends as boys," he began abruptly. "By the time we were young men, however, we were too dissimilar to remain close, his interests tending toward too many of the vices I had been taught to avoid. He was always charming, and through those years he maintained a warm relationship with my father, but Father was not blind. He saw Wickham's dissipation, the way he wasted his education and opportunities. To the end of his life he held out hope that Wickham would see his errors and choose to lead a more sober life, but he was realistic enough to know that such hopes often failed. That was why Father's will left the living Wickham had been promised in my hands to distribute, with only the suggestion that it go to Wickham if he proved worthy of it."

"And he did not? Is he truly so bad?"

"Do you wish your community's spiritual leader to be a man who has fathered a child by at least three separate women in the congregation?"

Lizzy gasped and covered her mouth. Mr. Wickham? But he had always seemed so gentlemanly! So trustworthy and open!

"Forgive me, Miss Beatty," Mr. Darcy said, looking down at her regretfully. "I have shocked you. I have rather strong feelings on this subject, and I was reluctant to explain the truth to you for fear of offending you with more openness than is polite. I truly am better on paper."

"No, indeed," Lizzy assured him, squeezing his arm. "I am not offended, sir, only horrified that I could have been so deceived in a gentleman I considered a good, honest friend. How horrible!"

"Do you wish me to continue?"

"Please."

"Very well. Less than a year after my father's death, Wickham came to see me. He claimed to have decided to study the law and wished to give up all rights to the church living promised him. I was only too happy to oblige, though I doubted his sincerity regarding his future pursuits, and I gave him three thousand pounds in exchange. He left, and I hoped to never see him again, although I could not entirely avoid hearing of him given that we shared a limited mutual acquaintance, especially in Lambton. Needless to say, the tidings only further convinced me that I had done well to be rid of him."

"He would have been a very popular pastor, I think," Lizzy mused, her thoughts racing as she sifted back through her memories of all their interactions. "He is good at listening sincerely, and no one would have ever doubted his genuine interest in them." She paused then frowned. "At least not until his indiscretions began coming to light as time passed. I would not imagine that a man so given to vice would have been cured simply by wearing a church collar."

"Indeed not," Mr. Darcy chuckled darkly. "Did… that is to say, Miss Beatty, did he ever show an apparently-genuine interest… in you?"

"I am certain, sir," Lizzy reprimanded more sharply than she intended, "that is none of your business."

"Of course not," he said quickly. "Again, please forgive me. 'Twas only that I wished to be certain that this revelation of his character had not injured you."

"If there is any injury, it is only to my pride. I dislike being deceived, but even more, I dislike being responsible for the deception. I should have detected his duplicitousness, or at least been more cautious in granting my approbation and trust. I suppose it is just one more way in which I have allowed my surface impressions to cloud my judgment of late."

"We are all susceptible to deception when caught unawares. Do not judge yourself too harshly. You are not the first person Wickham managed to charm, and nor, unfortunately, will you be the last. But I am relieved that he did you no real harm. He already has enough unforgiveable sins for which he must answer someday."

"Unforgiveable?" Lizzy asked, surprised by the passion in his tone. "Has he injured _you_ particularly, Mr. Welton?"

Lizzy's gaze was dancing quickly between his face and the path before them, and she wished again for someone to translate his expression. Anger? Perhaps frustration? Uncertainty?

"He found himself in desperate straits some months ago and attempted to steal something precious to me in order to pay his debts."

"No!" Lizzy cried, profoundly shocked. "You mean like a common thief? What did he try to take?"

"My sister."

Lizzy stared at him open-mouthed.

"I was away from her for some weeks, and he attempted to swoop in like a foul bird of prey and abscond with her to Gretna Green before I could stop them, his goal being her dowry. He convinced her that she was in love with him—she is young and easily persuaded. Only a trick of timing and my sister's candid nature saved her from his clutches."

He continued moving forward, and his expression remained untouched, but Lizzy could feel the fiery tension in his arm and see it in his tightened jaw.

"Forgive me," he said after a few moments, sounding slightly breathless. "There is much more to the story, but I find… that is, I am unable to continue without…" He trailed off, pressing his lips together tightly.

"You need say no more," Lizzy answered, her own chest swelling with righteous anger. "I am perfectly convinced of the man's despicable nature, and I promise that myself and my family will have as little to do with him as possible in the future, for all our sakes. But your poor sister! How my heart goes out to her! I hope her suffering has eased as time has passed, for I am certain it has not been easy for her."

"It has not," he answered tightly. Again, Lizzy might have thought he was angry, but it was not too difficult to look past his face and sense the churning emotions beneath it. "Her heart is still broken, but I think it is finally beginning to mend."

"Oh, I am so relieved. Poor girl." Lizzy hugged Mr. Darcy's arm slightly to herself. "How lucky she is to have an older brother who loves her and cares so deeply for her well-being."

He reddened slightly at her compliment, and his hand flicked as if to brush it aside. "Being as the entire episode was my fault in the first place, I believe it is quite obvious that any attempts to heal her deserve no more credit than any other fulfillment of duty."

Lizzy pursed her lips. It should not have surprised her that he carried a disproportionate burden of guilt regarding the entire matter.

"That is true," she replied gravely. "Clearly you are entirely responsible. You ought to have been a more conscientious guardian."

Mr. Darcy blinked at her, taken aback by her agreement. "Yes, I should have been."

"In fact, a truly diligent protector would have never left her on her own. She was alone, was she not?"

"She was attended by a companion, of course, although it turned out that I had been greatly deceived in her, that the woman was in fact in league with Wickham."

"Well, you ought to have at least checked the woman's references," Lizzy scoffed harshly.

"I did!" Mr. Darcy answered defensively. "Quite diligently, as a matter of fact. Everything appeared to be in order. No former employer would have known to mention her connection to Wickham, or even known of it at all."

"Ah. Then you should have told your sister about Mr. Wickham's reputation that she might be better prepared, especially the part about fathering children out of wedlock. In fact, it would have been safer if you had explained to her that she ought never to trust any gentleman who claimed to like her because he was probably only pursuing her dowry."

Mr. Darcy frowned. "I… yes, I should have warned her, or at least provided some general information regarding Wickham's duplicity… although I never imagined I would see him again. And as much as I respect your opinion generally, Miss Beatty, I am not certain it would be wise to tell a young lady that she ought never to trust any gentleman who liked her. How then could she ever form an earnest, affectionate attachment with a future suitor?"

"You make a convincing argument, sir," Lizzy replied thoughtfully. "You lead me back to the most important factor of her being deceived by Mr. Wickham: you were not there. Only your constant presence could have averted such a disaster, at least until she is of an age to make exceptionally wise decisions. That ability comes… when, exactly? Age twenty-five? Thirty? Yes, your responsibility is clearly to make certain that your sister is never without you until she is thirty."

Finally, Mr. Darcy released a low chuckle. "You are mocking me, are you not?"

"Of course not, sir," Lizzy snapped, as if offended. Then she tossed him a quick smile. "I am simply making the point that you assign yourself far too much of the blame, more than you deserve, for your sister's unfortunate experience. I would think it healthier to accept that the blame lies almost entirely with Mr. Wickham."

"I was not, perhaps, complicit in any wrong-doing, and I see that I have been unnecessarily fastidious in assigning responsibility to myself, but… well, I ought at least to have taught her to better guard her heart."

"Perhaps so. Now, I suspect, that is a lesson you will not need to teach, for she will have learned it quite well for herself, and much more effectively than your words could ever have managed. You see, sir, being not so far removed from your sister's age and circumstance, I remember quite well what it is like to feel the first throes of affection blossoming in a young girl's heart. No sense or advice would have swayed me had my early affections been recognized and returned. It was only after the object had been gone from the county for some weeks that I realized how flaccid and juvenile my longings truly were."

"You were in love once?" Mr. Darcy asked in an overly casual manner. "Might I ask with whom?"

Lizzy smirked at how simple it had been to fully distract him from his self-recriminations with her chosen topic. "I was not in love, sir, no. I felt a girlish fancy for Charlotte's younger brother, John, who had been my favorite playmate in childhood. Luckily, he went away to school just at the time my regard was becoming obvious to everyone. By the time he returned to visit at Christmas, I had practically forgotten him."

Mr. Darcy chuckled. "This is John of the knot-tying, swashbuckling, pirate games?"

"Yes," Lizzy grinned. "He is still excellent fun, even grown, and I despise his visits because while he spends his days gallivanting through the countryside hunting and exploring, I am a 'lady' now and am expected to behave as one. It is terribly vexing."

"I would imagine so."

"Did you ever have that sort of childish affinity for anyone, sir?"

"There was a pretty housemaid my fourteen-year-old self found quite arresting, but as soon as my father discovered it, we had a long discussion about the responsibilities of an estate owner as well as the consequences of entanglements we were unwilling to legitimize, and I was never truly tempted again.

"There were always pretty, flirtatious young ladies in society, but my mother was an incredible woman in my memory, intelligent, kind, unpretentious, and eminently capable, and my parents' relationship was so affectionate and equal that I had never found a lady I considered the similar kind of match that I sought for myself." He looked up from his absent study of the path before them and met Lizzy's gaze. "Never until seven months ago, in a little town in Hertfordshire."

The swoop in Lizzy's insides stole her breath, and she knew she was blushing violently, but somehow she was unable to look away from him. It took all her effort simply to keep her feet moving forward, for every other bit of her attention was focused on her reaction.

There was no longer any confusion, no revulsion or anger. All she felt was that now-familiar warmth in her chest coupled with relieved jubilation. Her delight was so stark, so new and shining, that she could only fall back on her old habits of distraction.

"Sir," Lizzy smirked, "I knew you admired my sister Mary from afar, but I am truly astonished that you would afford her such accolades after knowing her so little!"

Mr. Darcy watched her uncertainly for a moment before a small smile began lifting one side of his mouth. "How did you so easily discover the object of my affections? I thought I had been so discreet."

"I am a very experienced observer, sir, and thankfully, my assumptions regarding others' characters, motivations, and intentions are never incorrect."

"You are remarkably astute."

They walked on, approaching the narrow gated entrance to the small park. Lizzy was gazing straight ahead and trying to appear bland, but she could not contain a bewildered smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Mr. Darcy's expression was quite similar to her own.

"Miss Beatty..." He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "Elizabeth. I cannot…"

"Well, well," said a tenor voice from the shadow of a narrow alley they were passing, "what have we here? An early morning rendezvous, Miss Beatty? With your dear cousin's new tenant, of all people. My, you are a quick study, aren't you?"

Lizzy spun sharply toward the voice, her hand clamping down on Mr. Darcy's arm. "Mr. Tanner!"

"What are you doing here, Tanner?" Mr. Darcy growled. 'We made it quite clear that you were to meet us at The Blue Hound from now on."

Mr. Roland Tanner, looking relatively disheveled with red-rimmed eyes and flushed cheeks, waved his words away dismissively. "I am doing a favor for you, _sir_ , but I am not your servant, and you cannot order me about. I shall do as I like."

"I am paying you very handsomely for this _favor_ ," Mr. Darcy retorted, "but only if you keep your end of our bargain, one element of which required you to remain entirely away from your father's house."

"And so I am!" Mr. Tanner laughed, motioning toward the Tanner's home, which could just be glimpsed at the far end of the block. "But I will admit, I had hoped to catch you this morning on your way out, as I have had some success overnight in the endeavor we discussed. I thought you may not want to wait until this afternoon to hear of it."

Mr. Darcy eyed Mr. Tanner dangerously, but he finally nodded. "Very well. Allow me to escort Miss Beatty home, and I will meet you back here to talk."

"You needn't trouble yourself, Mr. Welton," Lizzy said, trying to appear confused and empty-headed. "I can easily walk back on my own. 'Tis just down the street."

"I insist," Mr. Darcy returned gravely. He pulled her away without allowing her time for any further acknowledgment of Mr. Tanner's presence than a wave. The man returned the gesture with a bow and an openly lascivious glance that made Lizzy feel as if spiders were climbing her limbs.

"Honestly," she said and Mr. Darcy hurried her across the street, nearly dragging her, "I can walk myself home."

"I am not truly comfortable leaving you alone _anywhere_ , let alone sending you down a quiet, early morning street where men such as Roland Tanner can lurk in alleyways. But even were it not for that, I would prefer to return home because I intend to retrieve Old Tanner and Jacob to return with me. I do not trust that man not to attempt something nefarious if I am alone with him."

"You've no idea how relieved I am to hear you thinking about your own safety," Lizzy replied, hugging his arm against her. "By all means, take as many reinforcements as you can."

One corner of Mr. Darcy's mouth quirked up. "Would you appreciate knowing that the only reason I am showing any concern for myself is because my being robbed or incapacitated would render me significantly less able to aid you? Or shall I keep that thought to myself?"

They were making their way up the Tanner's back stairs just then, but Lizzy jerked him to a stop and climbed another stair before turning to face him, assuring that she could meet his eye with as much force as possible. "Your sense of humor is hopelessly lacking, sir, if you believe I could find the idea of your being endangered for my sake even remotely funny."

"There is some humor in the predictability of your reaction."

She stabbed his chest with her pointed finger, looking as fierce as she possibly could. "Promise me that in any further conversation or negotiation with that man or any other, you will be as protective of your own safety as you are of mine."

"I can make no such promise. For the reasons we have discussed already, guarding you from all this is my paramount objective, far above the importance of my own protection."

"How would I live with myself if you were to come to some great harm for my sake?"

"More easily than I could live with myself if I had not done everything I could to safeguard you."

They stood on the stairs glaring at each other for barely five seconds before Lizzy found her eyes fixed much more intently on his mouth than they ought to be. The teasing smirk he wore suited him surprisingly well, as did the twinkle in his eye, and she felt a sudden and intense burst of warmth inside her as she pictured herself leaning the short distance between them and pressing her mouth against his. Oh, how she wanted to kiss him again, this stubborn, frustrating, confusing, wonderful man!

It was only the surprise of that thought and the embarrassment riding hard on its heels that drew her back. Her humiliation increased when she realized that, having never removed her finger from its threatening placement against his chest, her hand had moved down and hooked itself onto the edge of his waistcoat, poised as if to pull him forward. She released him instantly, clasping her hands together primly.

"I… I…" She stumbled over her words, trying to recall their argument with clarity. "Please, at least promise me you will be exceptionally careful."

She was unable to raise her eyes to his, but she saw that he swallowed hard before answering gruffly, "Of course. On my honor, I shall be cautious." Then she saw his mouth quirk up again mischievously before he added, "For your sake."

Lizzy threw her hands in the air and spun away, stomping up the final stairs and bursting in through the kitchen door, much to the Tanner's surprise. Mr. Darcy followed her with a quiet, self-satisfied chuckle. It was not until he had explained his need for both the Mr. Tanners' presence and the two men were rising from their nearly-finished breakfasts that Lizzy was able to turn from hanging the coat Mrs. Tanner had allowed her to borrow and face the group with equanimity.

She found herself glaring at Mr. Darcy again, however, as Mrs. Tanner reminded them to "Be careful, please!"

He crossed the room to Lizzy as the men were donning their outerwear. He reached for her hand and bowed over it formally before kissing it. "It is no wonder, Olivia, that you take such pleasure in teasing me, although I suspect that my reactions are rarely as charming as yours was just now."

She blushed a little, but the gentleness of his manner allowed her to smile. "Just because they are quieter does not mean they are not equally worthwhile. The way you redden and stammer when I offer you a sincere compliment is particularly enjoyable."

"I do not think that counts as teasing," he answered uncomfortably.

"It does if I am doing it especially to provoke you into an entertaining reaction."

He grimaced at her and was about to speak again when Jacob said from the doorway, "We are ready to leave whenever the two of you have finished flirting, Mr. Welton."

Mr. Darcy dropped her hand as if it were made of ice and spun away, his Master of Pemberley mask in place despite his reddened ears. He led the men out the door without a backward glance. The Tanner men followed him, both chuckling. Mrs. Tanner was laughing as well, despite Lizzy glaring at her meaningfully.

"I hope he stole a kiss or two this morning," Mrs. Tanner said as she brought a full plate to the table and motioned for Lizzy to sit in front of it.

"Laura!" Lizzy gasped, blushing all the way to the tips of her hair. "How very shocking!"

"So he's not yet managed it?" Mrs. Tanner giggled.

"Kissing is barely tolerated, Laura, even during an engagement," Lizzy chided as she sat, "and even then it is strongly discouraged. It is simply not done. And besides, I have no assurance that he has any interest in such an activity anyway."

"How very ridiculous you gentlefolk are," Mrs. Tanner said, shaking her head as if sorry for Lizzy. "How are two people to know if they should like to lay together as husband and wife if they've never even stolen a kiss?"

Lizzy opened her mouth to protest further shock, but no sound escaped. After a moment, during which she imagined no appropriate answer, she closed it again instead and tucked into her eggs and porridge.

"And as for your concern about his interest in 'such an activity,'" Mrs. Tanner went on, "I believe I can assure you that it is only his sense of gentlemanly honor, as well as his doubts about your feelings toward him, that prevents him from attempting such an enjoyable theft."

"How could you possibly know such a thing?" Lizzy asked, equal parts scandalized and delighted.

"Because while you are busy blushing and averting your eyes when the two of you accidentally brush hands when passing the milk pitcher at breakfast or when you prepare his afternoon tea just the way he likes it without him having to ask, I am watching the open longing on his face, the way his eyes catch and hold you as if he would rather die than look away."

There were footsteps on the stairs outside and low voices.

"I wish I could be certain you are correct," Lizzy whispered hurriedly. "I am so wretchedly confused."

"I believe that you will not ever be confident of his feelings for you," Mrs. Tanner advised, her eyes on the door, "until you are confident enough of your own feelings to show them to him."

Lizzy held her hands up to her cheeks, which she could already feel burning. "It has all just happened so fast! A week ago, I despised him, but now… oh, I do not know!"

But she did know, in a way. His words that morning, his flirtation, had brought her nothing but pleasure. It was obvious that she liked him more than she had wanted to admit, that she cared more for him than she had realized, but how deep did the feelings run?

The gentlemen entered, speaking in low voices, but Mr. Darcy's eyes immediately fell on Lizzy, and he broke off mid-sentence. "Olivia, are you unwell?"

Lizzy could not understand his question until she realized that her hands were still pressed against her face. "Oh!" she cried, straightening in her seat. "No, I am perfectly well. I am only… we were just…" She swallowed hard. "What did Mr. Roland Tanner have to say?"

Old Mr. Tanner answered grimly. "He has come across some information in a tavern down in Whitechapel. Word is traveling through the London underground of a gentleman willing to pay a large reward to anyone who sights a tall, fine gentleman and dark-haired lady attempting to blend into a working-class neighborhood, possibly as brother and sister or a married couple. No names were mentioned, at least not in Whitechapel, but there is a location named for the collecting of such information, a seedy pleasure house Roland knows near Covent Garden."

Lizzy felt winded by the news. "They needn't necessarily mean us."

"Possibly not, but it would be quite coincidental," Mr. Darcy replied, his expression heavy. He crossed the room and dropped onto the bench across the table from Lizzy. "In any case, it is the only lead we have at this moment regarding Smythe's influence in London. Therefore, Roland is going to find himself in need of companionship in Covent Garden tonight and see what more he can learn for us."

Lizzy nodded, relieved that Mr. Darcy had not said he would be going himself. "Is there still no word from Kent?"

"None."

"What else can be done then?" she asked. "We must simply wait until tomorrow."

"Indeed."

"And you must be even more careful about going out," she advised Mr. Darcy seriously. "If our descriptions are circulating, our names and faces may be known also. And no matter whether you wear a solicitor's coat or not," she said, gesturing toward his ready-made suit, "it would be difficult to mistake you for anything but a 'tall, fine gentleman.' Perhaps you should begin bending with a pronounced hunch and leaning on a cane as you walk."

Mr. Darcy watched her expressionlessly for a moment before finally revealing a small smile. "It is an idea I shall consider."

"I am worried," young Mr. Tanner said, leaning against the mantle and staring into the fire. "Father seemed to be enjoying himself rather more than he ought to be regarding all of this. Certainly, he will be filling his purse if his information is discovered to be helpful, but I do not believe that accounts for all of his good cheer."

"He was drunk," old Mr. Tanner harrumphed. "It is difficult to trust any man so deep into his cups."

"Father was sober for very little of my life," the grandson answered. "He is usually a rather morose drunk. And a violent one." He glanced toward his wife, and an expression of pain flashed across his face, no doubt as he remembered the moment the previous evening when he had discovered the finger-shaped bruises on her arm. Lizzy had feared, as she had watched him, that the poor young man would combust from sheer rage.

"I agree that we cannot trust him," Mr. Darcy said, "but there is still no better option. An entire week has passed since we were removed from Kent. Miss Beatty's family is certain to be wondering why they have heard nothing from her in all that time, and they are expecting her to be returning to her relations in London in three days. Any possibility of not raising an alarm will end at that time. We must learn as much as we can about Lord Smythe's operation before then because if he is unlikely to make another attempt on her, we could return her home with no one the wiser."

"You must be missing your family very much," Mrs. Tanner said sympathetically.

"My father, yes, and my elder sister. And the others, too, I suppose," Lizzy said thoughtfully. Honestly, she had not had much time to think about them, having kept herself quite busy with Mrs. Tanner and her worries over Mr. Darcy and Lord Smythe's men. "And I fear the friend from whom we were abducted must be suffering acutely. I should like to be able to reassure her."

"Very well then," old Mr. Tanner sighed. "We will simply wait to speak to Roland tomorrow."

Young Mr. Tanner still looked upset, but he attempted to shrug it away and prepare himself to leave for the day.

"All will be well," Lizzy said to Mr. Darcy across the table, holding out her hand. She had meant it to sound reassuring, but it came out more like a question.

"All will be well," he agreed, covering her hand with his own.

* * *

Moving yet again through the common room of The Blue Hound, Fitzwilliam had to bite back a groan. How he had come to despise this place in such a short amount of time! Even upon entering last night, it had only given him a vague sense of disquiet, but this evening he felt a violent dislike as the mistress of the inn nodded to him from behind the bar, handed him a tankard of ale, and opened the locked side door, all without uttering a word.

Of course, that likely had to do with the person he knew would shortly be appearing in the back room, dressed in yet another one of Miss Bennet's altered gowns.

Fitzwilliam scanned the room quickly as he entered, surprised to see only five or six others besides Simon Monsdale, Smythe's agent. Fitzwilliam was earlier tonight than he had been on his two previous visits, but he had not expected to arrive before so many. The conversation was quiet and apprehensive, the others obviously spending as much energy eyeing their opponents as they did pretending to be polite and friendly acquaintances. He wondered how these gamblers met in society, what level of association they allowed between one another in public.

Monsdale was seated at the end of the table, as usual, and writing out the official recording document he always used to track the bets, the debts, the winners, and the losers of each evening. He was barely listening to the excited chatter of the woman beside him, the wanton-eyed woman Fitzwilliam had noticed on both other occasions. She was doing her best to draw the agent's attention with both her conversation and her physical charms, but Monsdale seemed to find her more irritating than engaging. It was possible that she was interested in him, but the desperate light in her eye implied that she was simply attempting to talk herself out of a debt, or offer some payment other than money in which Monsdale had little interest.

As disgusting as the entire enterprise was, at least, according to Mrs. Collins, Monsdale was scrupulously honest about the exchanging of money and I.O.U.'s. He wrote down every transaction, kept careful tally of credit given, and only asked for the previously agreed-upon fifteen-percent interest on top of the original amount borrowed. He was regularly offered payment in other forms, particularly female company, but he never accepted anything but money or goods of obvious value. He prized this job too highly and even had some vague guiding sense of fairness about the enterprise.

Monsdale looked up at Fitzwilliam's entrance, offered a genial nod, and returned to his document. Fitzwilliam decided to take the opportunity to greet some of the others he had come to recognize. It occurred to him suddenly that he was very lucky none of those in Rosings' direct neighborhood patronized this establishment, especially those he had visited recently. If they had, he would have been recognized immediately. He wondered whether these were all gentry from nearer Coxton, but if so, how had Lady Catherine come to hear of this game originally?

Monsdale had just announced the opening game of the night, Vingt-et-un, when the back door opened with a squeak and a form slipped into the shadows. Monsdale glanced back for a moment, then turned back and finished his business with a slightly hurried air. The game began, Fitzwilliam as only a spectator for the first round, and Monsdale moved swiftly across the room, greeting Mrs. Collins with a rough kiss. Fitzwilliam kept his back to the couple, hoping those near him could not hear the grinding of his teeth.

It was several minutes before Monsdale returned to the table, Mrs. Collins once again perched on his knee. They were both pink cheeked and a bit breathless, a sight that made Fitzwilliam's blood boil far more hotly than was healthy for only the beginning of this evening. How would he bear it?

The fact that she was present at all went against everything he had declared the previous night, but after spending the entire morning and most of the afternoon surreptitiously searching through Lady Catherine's documents and records, even the private accounts he had discovered stowed in a hidden drawer of her desk, he had found no evidence whatsoever of anything besides general mismanagement. Still, even according to her personal records, the only large expense not obviously connected to the running of the estate was the regular payment made to Doctor Spencer for Anne's medicines.

Finally, in the early evening, he had returned to Hunsford defeated. He knew of no more reliable way to get information from Monsdale than through his association with Mrs. Collins, and given the urgency of the situation, he had been forced to admit that he needed her help. To her credit, she had not crowed over him. She had simply nodded with determination and promised to arrive at her usual time, around nine o'clock.

Now, as he watched the man's hands crawling all over her, his lips pressed against her collarbone, Fitzwilliam realized what a fool he had been. It was one thing to put a lady in a difficult circumstance for the purpose of rescuing friends—it was another to risk the reputation, wellbeing, and morality of the woman he loved for _any_ reason, no matter how worthwhile it seemed.

And yes, he did love her, even if she could never be his. He realized it as more than raging jealousy swept through him at the sight of her in another man's arms. He was not simply envious of her attentions—he admired her courage, and he respected her enough to trust her even in this untenable situation. His love for her was true and far more real than it had any right to be.

It required all of his army training to keep his countenance light and his focus on the game, to push aside his emotions and behave calmly. He would not ruin her assistance by playing the jealous lover. Indeed, she was doing a remarkable job of ignoring him completely, and the least he could do was return the favor.

However, after only an hour or so of rotating in and out at the table, his resolve to leave Mrs. Collins to her version of information-gathering was crumbling. Her efforts had begun with apparent success—the two of them had been whispering together since nearly the moment of her arrival—but already Monsdale had almost entirely lost interest in talking, and Fitzwilliam highly doubted that it would be possible to regain it. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Mrs. Collins again speak low into his ear, but Monsdale merely grunted and returned to sliding his hand up under her skirt.

The only way she would get him talking again, Fitzwilliam feared, would be after his physical desires had been sated, and although she had claimed that she would never allow him any real liberties, Fitzwilliam was there to enforce her resolution just in case.

All at once, Mrs. Collins seemed to come to the same conclusion, for he suddenly found her staring at him, her eyes wide and full of anxiety. Yes, he needed to extricate her somehow, but they had neither of them thought to agree upon a method. How could she remove herself without raising suspicion?

Before Fitzwilliam had time to settle upon any solution, the back door of the dim room crashed open and a small figure wearing a fur-lined, hooded cloak darted inside before slamming the door closed with equal force. "Simon!" she laughed, drawing the attention of any in the room who were not already staring at her. "How good it is to be back!"

She threw back her hood and flounced toward the table. Her fair hair was pulled into a haphazard style that poorly matched her overly-fine silk gown. Her smile was wide, but it began to dim as she looked around, apparently surprised at the lack of warm greetings from those gathered, most of whom were staring at her with either confusion or dislike.

"Anne," Simon said unenthusiastically. "What could you possibly be doing here?"

It was not until Monsdale spoke her name that Fitzwilliam was able to thaw from the shock her entrance had occasioned and duck his head. He was seated across the table from Monsdale and could only hope that she would not make an earnest search of the faces in the room. What was his cousin doing here?

And honestly, how was she here at all? It was no surprise that he had barely recognized the drab, lifeless creature he knew as his relation in this vivacious, outlandish young woman who was glowing with health and energy.

"Oh, do not be such an old fuss, Simon. You are glad to see me, even if you refuse to acknowledge it. This table is always less exciting without me."

"Your version of excitement grew tiresome, Anne, if you will recall," Simon sighed. "You know you are not welcome here until your debt is paid."

"Oh, I shall take care of all that," Anne answered with a careless wave of her hand. Then she offered a pouty frown that Fitzwilliam had seen other young women employ with far more success than she managed. "Has Francis not arrived yet?"

"Parkinson?" Simon asked, his hand running absently along Mrs. Collins forearm. "He left for Dover a week ago."

"No. He has returned. He is to come for me tonight."

"For what purpose?"

She smiled then, looking dreamy and swaying back and forth to an imaginary melody. "We are to run away together to Gretna Green. I am free of this dreadful place, and I am never coming back!"

Fitzwilliam exchanged a look with Mrs. Collins. Who was this girl he ought to know, and what was going on?

Monsdale stood then, gently sliding Mrs. Collins down onto his chair and kissing her neck once more with a resigned sigh before turning to face Anne. "I cannot allow you to leave the country, Anne, not until your debts to Lord Smythe are paid. And in case you think I cannot keep you here by myself, I believe that Mr. Wellington, Mr. Teller, and Mrs. Hyde, among others, will be most willing to help me, given that your personal debts to them are also quite excessive."

Fitzwilliam watched in shock as the older man, one of the very first ones who had spoken to him, cracked his knuckles and rose to his feet, flanked by several others. "We care not who you are, Miss de Bourgh. You owe us money, and we will collect before you disappear."

Anne remained undaunted. "Oh, pish-tosh all of you! I have your money, I do. You will all be paid in full before I leave. But I will not pay anyone until Francis arrives, so how about one more game for old times' sake?"

No one moved to allow her room, not even when she offered another pouty frown. "No one will play with me? I thought you were my friends!" She looked desperately around the table, staring pleadingly at each face. It was too late to hide by the time Fitzwilliam realized how dangerous her action might be for him.

Anne's pale eyes went perfectly round with shock when her gaze landed on him. "Cousin?"

Fitzwilliam stood from the table and stepped back, sweeping her a low bow. "Anne. You are looking remarkably healthy this evening."

She paled, but her expression of concern shifted to determination. "You shall not ruin this for me, Richard. What are you doing here?"

"Enjoying an evening out."

She snorted indelicately. "Hardly. I suppose Mr. Collins revealed this little secret after our cousin disappeared. All these months Collins has kept my confidence, and _now_ he reveals it, when I am so close to my freedom. I should never have trusted him! Is this why you have been sneaking through the house these past few days? You are here trying to gather information to help you find our cousin!"

Monsdale had turned on Fitzwilliam now and was watching him warily. "You said your name was Barker, that you hailed from the north and were an old friend of Lord Smythe's."

"Ha!" Anne giggled. "He is my cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam! He believes he is a great military strategist and terribly observant, but he has never even suspected the game I have been playing all these years!"

"How long have you been well?" Fitzwilliam asked gravely.

"Years. At least since I was thirteen or fourteen and old enough to begin wanting to escape badly enough to find my way outdoors. To think—all that time everyone thought me so ill, and all I really needed was a chance to stretch my legs! I tried to convince mother at first, but she was so determined that I was a sickly child that she would not see reason, so I gave up. Instead I continued appearing as sickly as possible when at home and began adventuring on the grounds while I was supposed to be resting."

"But your doctors… Mrs. Jenkinson…"

"They are paid very handsomely for their silence."

Fitzwilliam thought of the obscene amounts of money being paid for Doctor Spencer's medicines and wondered how much went to him and how much went to Mrs. Jenkinson, the one who always received and administered the tonics.

"But why? Why all the deception?"

She shrugged like a careless child. "Because it was fun. How I would laugh each day when I escaped into the forest and ran about like a heathen! And how I crowed the day I met a man in the wood, a nice man who told me I was beautiful and kissed me and invited me here where I could finally greet the world."

"This is Francis?"

"Oh, no. That was years ago. I have been playing cards here several evenings a week for over six years. Until a few months ago, that is," she said, making a rude gesture toward Monsdale, "when I had a run of bad luck and was banned until my debts were paid. Before I had always made up the amounts by selling my jewelry—as if Mother would have ever let me wear it anywhere that mattered! That was when Francis and I began planning."

"Planning what?" Monsdale asked, uncertain whether he ought to be monitoring Anne more closely or Fitzwilliam. His hand was hovering over the sword on his belt.

"Oh, 'tis all so devious! I am prodigiously proud of myself, I must admit." Then she attempted a contrite frown, although her twinkling eyes made it rather unbelievable. "I truly never meant for our cousin to get himself abducted, but really, I cannot feel too bad given that he was off visiting Mr. Collins' tart of a relation at the time."

"What should you care for his behaviors, considering your own!"

"Well, it all would have worked out much better had he simply given in to Mother's hounding and married me. He would have had to take care of all my debts, and then Francis and I were planning to run away together as soon after the wedding as I could manage to collect enough funds. I was quite determined to catch him this year, but he was entirely distracted through this visit, and we had to use mother's money instead."

"What do you mean, use Lady Catherine's money? Have you stolen from her?"

"How can I steal what will legitimately be mine eventually?" Anne asked, all injured innocence. "I simply told Mother that the debt I owed to Lord Smythe was slightly larger than the actual amount, and now Francis and I will have enough to begin our life together comfortably."

Fitzwilliam turned to Monsdale. "How much does Anne owe to your master?"

"Twenty-thousand pounds, plus another five thousand in debts to others at the table."

Fitzwilliam glared at Anne in accusation. "You told Lady Catherine that your debt was ninety-thousand pounds."

Monsdale released an impressed guffaw, as did a few others. Anne grinned mischievously. "Well, Francis and I are determined to be _quite_ comfortable together."

"But how did you get it?" Fitzwilliam asked, deeply horrified.

"It was not so difficult. As soon as our cousin was taken, Mother became aware of much of the truth about my life these past years, and she took it into her head that if she could just clear this debt and get him back, that she would force him to marry me at once, which would hopefully balance out Rosings' coffers and return me to my senses. So she contacted a rather unscrupulous man of business who has helped her mortgage all of Rosings to gather the sum. Why did you imagine she has been unavailable all week for you to question?"

There were a few gasps around the table, but none to rival Fitzwilliam's disgusted groan. "You would ruin your own mother just for the sake of your own comfort?"

"Of course not!" Anne protested, trying to look shocked. Then her grin returned. "This is revenge, Richard. She has made my life a nightmare. The only daughter she wanted was a docile, sickly one who would never stand up for herself, who would never argue or attempt to make her own decisions. So she got what she wanted—I played the role for twenty-five years. And now it is my turn, and she can be the one with nothing."

Fitzwilliam stared at her for several seconds, his mouth agape. He was shocked and horrified, but at the same time, he was a little sympathetic to her situation. Still, to have stolen such an unimaginable amount, and from her own mother!

"You must return the money, Anne," Fitzwilliam finally said, shaking his head. "What you have done is terribly wrong."

"And keeping captive one's own daughter for over two decades is not?"

"Repaying one evil with another will bring good to no one."

"Ha!" she laughed again, her face flushed and her eyes so wide as to appear half-crazed. "I believe you are most incorrect, Richard. It will bring great happiness to Francis and myself!"

"I cannot let you use that money in such a way, Anne. Return the money to Lady Catherine."

Fitzwilliam heard the unmistakable tang of a sword being drawn from a scabbard, and his own was drawn instantly, hovering in the air toward Monsdale, whose own sword was out now but pointed to the ground. The group around the table backed away. A few more had entered through the previous hour, so although four of them disappeared through the side door into the inn's common room, three gentlemen and two ladies remained.

"I will not argue about what happens to the rest of the money," Monsdale said soothingly, despite the weapon in his hand, "but Anne's debts to Lord Smythe must be paid. Your cousin was the gentleman removed from Mr. Collins's house? He will not be returned until the debt is cleared. Lord Smythe is quite a capable jailor."

Fitzwilliam considered pointing out that Lord Smythe's jailing was not as proficient as he thought, but instead he replied, "The money ought to be returned and the mortgage paid off on the property. Other, less valuable properties can be sold to recover twenty-thousand pounds, if given a few weeks."

"Lady Catherine can take care of that after those in this room get the money owed to them."

"They can wait. The bankruptcy of a property such as Rosings would harm the entire surrounding county." Fitzwilliam addressed the group on the far side of the room, hoping to appeal to their good sense, but he somehow doubted this particular collection of gentry would be patient when the prospect of being paid soon was dangled before them like a carrot.

He was right. "If she can pay us tonight," one of the women said, "she ought to do so."

"We'll not allow her to leave until she has!" a man agreed.

Fitzwilliam swung his sword toward them, and they stepped back further, but then Monsdale shifted closer, holding his weapon more threateningly. "Men to whom money is owed are not easily intimidated, Colonel. You cannot incapacitate all of us."

Fitzwilliam smirked. "Actually, I believe I could. I would rather not, but I will if it is required to return what is rightfully my aunt's property. Do not doubt my determination."

Suddenly the side door swung open, and a young man rushed into the room. He paused at the sight of the drawn swords then staggered against the wall under the weight of Anne flying into his arms.

"Francis! My darling!"

She tried to kiss him, but he pulled her back behind him, facing the men with weapons. "What is going on here, Monsdale?"

"This is Lady Catherine's nephew, who has just been informed of your and Anne's plot to defraud the unsuspecting old woman. Sixty-five-thousand pounds extra is rather overly ambitious, Parkinson."

Parkinson's face had shifted from surprise into alarm as Fitzwilliam had adjusted his stance to threaten both men while still keeping the group from the table in his view. "Sixty-five-thousand, Anne?"

She shrugged, looking entirely unconcerned. "I told her the debt was even larger than we planned, and she believed me! Who was I to say nay to such an amount?" She swung her arms behind her back under her cloak and after a moment's struggle, swung a shoulder bag into view. She rifled through a stack of notes just visible under the flap and, after counting and adjusting, tugged out a small handful. "Here, Simon. There is an order for twenty-thousand for Lord Smythe, and here are some smaller notes for the others, a few thousands and five-thousands. I trust you to hand it out fairly." She skipped across and pressed the haphazard stack of papers into his hand.

Then she skipped back to Parkinson and flung her arms around his waist. "Now let us go. I am ready to begin our life together, Francis."

"Not so fast," Fitzwilliam said, his attention drawn again to the group at the far side who were inching slowly closer to Anne and, he assumed, her bag full of banknotes. He swung his sword toward them. "No one move. That money belongs to no one here. It is Lady Catherine's, and it is in everyone's best interest to return it to her."

His words meant little—he could see the gleam of avarice in too many eyes. Even Monsdale was eyeing the bag speculatively. What a little fool Anne was! Had she truly imagined that such a group as this would have happily let her go on her way carrying such a sum? And what if she were robbed along the road? Or at an inn?

Perhaps it would serve her right to let these vultures accost her, but he kept thinking of pathetic Lady Catherine, of how heartbroken she would be over this deception, and as much as he had never really liked her, he did not believe she deserved to be so completely ruined.

One of the group against the wall began inching his way toward them, bouncing an empty candlestick against his palm like a truncheon. He was flanked by both others, one of whom slid a sword from his belt. The other drew a knife from his boot.

The lead man held his empty hand out innocently, but his eyes were fastened to Anne's bag. "Now think, Colonel. She may be your aunt, but we all know Lady Catherine has no care for anyone besides herself. If we take that bag from this foolish child, we could split all those notes equally. There are only eight of us in this room besides her and Parkinson. Just think—that's seven or eight thousand pounds each!"

"Stay back, fools, or face our blades." Fitzwilliam stepped beside Parkinson and tapped the hilt of the young man's sword, which was still hanging in his scabbard. Parkinson looked surprised to see it there. He drew it, and he and Fitzwilliam faced outward.

Anne stepped out around them, holding out pleading hands and looking terribly injured. "But my friends, I have repaid my debts! How could you consider taking what is rightfully mine? I have never… Oh!"

Mrs. Collins darted from where she had been standing behind Monsdale and rushed Anne back behind Fitzwilliam and Parkinson. "You had best remain quiet," Fitzwilliam heard her say in a harsh whisper. "You have already caused enough trouble."

"Unhand me!" Anne demanded. "I am certain my friends will listen to reason!"

"Yes, Anne!" The lead man said, sneering. "Come on out and face us as friends. We are all feeling quite _reasonable_."

The cackle he added at the end seemed to convince Anne to remain happily in Mrs. Collins' grasp.

"I suppose," Monsdale said dryly, "it would be bad for business if a young lady, even a stupid one, were to be assaulted and robbed around one of Lord Smythe's tables." He sauntered over and stepped into the circle with Fitzwilliam and Parkinson, raising his blade outward. "Lord Smythe would find out and never allow me to keep the money anyway." He winked at Mrs. Collins, who giggled inanely and blew him a kiss.

With one hand holding his blade, Monsdale used the other to begin sorting notes onto the table beside him. As he did so, he spoke in a conversational tone, "The same will hold true for you, Parkinson. If you use Smythe's business to steal unjustified from anyone, even your future mother-in-law, he will not be forgiving. There will be no corner of England where you shall be safe."

"That's why I've spent the last week securing us passage to America after we marry," Parkinson replied gravely.

"America is a new world," Anne squeaked, trying to sound cheerful despite the circumstances. "We shall be safe there, and quite rich."

Fitzwilliam glanced quickly over Parkinson's face, trying to find any symptoms of passion or affection in his face, but none were in evidence. Did this stern-looking young man truly wish to marry Anne and run away with her, or was he just another thief, planning to marry her for her money, or to run off with it and abandon her?

"Now," Monsdale said loudly to the men still inching warily toward them, "here I have laid out for you the monies I know Anne owes to each of you. I have kept a careful accounting of each debt as you have reported them to me, so do not attempt to convince me she owes you more. I am now placing into my pocket Lord Smythe's twenty-thousand pounds." He followed his words with action, stuffing a single note into his breast pocket. "Anyone who tries to take it from me will feel Lord Smythe's anger, and I do not think anyone here doubts his willingness to regain his funds in whatever way he deems necessary. Do not test him."

The men and women moved to the table, and Monsdale pointed each one to a short stack of notes. The bills were quickly counted and secreted away. Just as quickly, Fitzwilliam motioned them back with his sword.

The two groups in the room, each containing three men and two women, stood staring at one another, uncertain what would happen next.

"You are one of the men who assaulted me on the street in Dover," Parkinson muttered to him, his eyes on the others.

Fitzwilliam was taken aback—that was why the young man's face had seemed familiar—but he attempted not to show it. "You were attempting to re-abduct a friend of mine at the time."

"Just doing my job. We would not have harmed her—Smythe never would have allowed it, and nor will Reg. You are Anne's cousin, the colonel?"

"I am. Are you certain you know what you are doing, absconding with her? She is rich, but…"

"She has lived a difficult life," he said quietly, a tenderness to his tone. "She can be childish and vengeful. Sixty-five-thousand pounds! But she can also be quite sweet and earnest—she is so determined to enjoy every moment of her life to the fullest. And she is carrying my child. I will take the best care of her I can manage."

Fitzwilliam prided himself on his discernment, and although he had been quite deceived in Anne, he was certain it was because he had never taken the trouble to pay her the slightest bit of attention, a reality over which he suddenly felt significant regret. How miserable must she have been to have come to this place, to these people, as her solace? In this instance, however, he believed what Parkinson claimed. He was sincere, and he would not abandon Anne.

Could Fitzwilliam let Anne leave with all that money? But could he manage to get himself and Mrs. Collins out of the room along with them, without being followed, and then forcibly take the money? He could not imagine all of that running smoothly.

A ninety-thousand pound loss. He suddenly wished he had paid more attention to Darcy's conversations with Mr. Nelson about the state of Rosings' finances. True, he had been scanning the accounts for the past several days, but he had not been looking for total incomes and outlays, and he had found no recent references to conversations with bankers over mortgaging the estate. Would Rosings be able to survive such a forfeiture?

"I am going to attack them," he whispered tightly to Parkinson. "Monsdale and I will keep them busy while you and Anne run. I know not how long we can hold them—do you have a quick means of escape?"

"My horse is tethered out front, and I brought one for Anne as well. We shall be away quickly."

"Very well."

"Colonel," Parkinson said quickly, "I will offer you something in return for your assistance. Your other cousin, Mr. Darcy, is in trouble."

"He is safe enough. He has not been discovered since their successful escape."

Parkinson shook his head. "He only thinks he is safe. There is a man who knows where he and Miss Bennet are hiding. The man brought information to Reg in Whitechapel this morning just before I left. I did not hear their negotiations or their specific plans, but I am fairly certain they intend to move first thing tomorrow morning."

Fitzwilliam cursed. "I must get word to them. If this is true, I am in your debt."

"No. 'Tis the least I can do, despite the beating in Dover."

Fitzwilliam nodded, his mind already flying ahead. He was so distracted with considerations of yet another night-ride, this time with only the mare he had borrowed from Lady Catherine's stables, that he missed the signs of the man nearest him preparing to lunge. He only barely parried the stroke, nearly backing into Anne and Mrs. Collins.

With that movement, chaos took over the room. Swords clanged, women screamed, voices yelled from the inn's common room, and Fitzwilliam could focus on little besides protecting himself, preventing the movements of the other armed men, and providing a narrow path for Parkinson and Anne to make their way to the door.

The man with the sword, the younger gentleman he had met his first night here, lunged again toward Fitzwilliam as the others launched themselves at Parkinson and Monsdale. Neither of his allies seemed as familiar with his blade as he ought to be, so Fitzwilliam was unsurprised when he noticed Monsdale stagger back, the candlestick having left a bleeding gash on his cheek, and Parkinson release a yelp as he barely managed to avoid the short dagger, despite his much longer blade. Fitzwilliam easily incapacitated his attacker, leaving him a slice on his forearm deep enough to make the unprepared fellow back away whimpering, and stepped in front of Parkinson, hissing, "Go."

It was only a matter of a few more seconds before Monsdale, Fitzwilliam, and the angry innkeeper, who had appeared once the noise had begun, had subdued the antagonists—one knocked unconscious, one held in a chair at sword point, and the third still mewling over his arm—and ushered the angry women and curious bystanders from the common room outside. The fight had not been nearly as distressing as many in which Fitzwilliam had been involved before, but he was still slightly winded, and he leaned back against the wall as the innkeeper finished tying up all three men, whose punishment would apparently be a six-month ban from Smythe's tables. From their reactions to Monsdale's declaration, one might have thought their children had just been murdered in front of them.

"Well, Colonel," Monsdale said, leaning back against the wall beside him and pressing a handkerchief against his cheek, "it would seem I chose the correct side in that fight. You are quite handy with a blade."

"To a Frenchman, I am the devil himself."

Monsdale laughed. "I am surprised that you allowed your cousin to leave with all that money."

"As am I. I know not what I shall tell Lady Catherine."

"It seems to me a just punishment for being such a poor parent."

"Perhaps. I suppose at least the debt to Smythe is paid. Although according to Parkinson, that does not seem to mean they will abandon their pursuit of my cousin."

Monsdale glanced around and lowered his voice. "I probably should not speak of this, being as I am only a lowly agent and know very little of the larger scheme, but I do know one thing. Lord Smythe has been preparing to retire for some months now—word is there is a woman involved—and he has been attempting to close up the entire operation. However, Reg, his lieutenant, has been quietly preparing to take over the operation as soon as Lord Smythe quits the country permanently. This was supposed to be a short trip to make preparations somewhere on the Continent, and then Smythe was to return for any final collections, including his lady, and disappear into Europe.

"Reg approached most of us agents, and the others of the group, and privately offered us the opportunity to keep working as we have been, to maintain the operation, even to continue using Smythe's name for Reg, since it is only an alias anyway. I may be wrong, but if I understood Parkinson correctly, your other cousin and the young lady escaped but are even now being pursued by Reg. If so, I would advise you not to assume that his methods will be the same at Smythe's. Reg has never held with Smythe's exacting code of conduct, and it would not surprise me if he has decided to seek a far heavier ransom for their freedom than Miss de Bourgh's twenty-thousand-pound debt."

"But Smythe himself told Darcy that he would seek a ransom from the very beginning."

Monsdale frowned. "Smythe has never asked for ransoms except as repayment. He does not use abduction as a primary source of income. I cannot imagine why he would have begun doing so now."

"From where in London would Reg operate?" Fitzwilliam asked, having regained his breath enough to feel urgent again. "How can I find him?"

"I know nothing," Monsdale said, holding up his hands and shrugging. "I only know that I am paid handsomely to monitor this table, and that I am to send updates each time the private courier comes through. I know not where he comes from, who he is, or where he goes. He knocks on the back door every second and fourth Tuesday at midnight."

"Very well." Fitzwilliam pushed off the wall, dusting off his coat and sheathing his sword. "Then I am for London."

"Good luck to you, truly," Monsdale nodded. He looked around the room then and sighed with resignation. "It appears that, once I settle with the innkeeper over these troubles, I am for my bed. Alone. My little bird has flown the coop, and honestly, who could blame her? I can always hope she will appear again tomorrow."

Fitzwilliam stared around the room, horrified that, in the all the chaos and his new fears for Darcy, he had forgotten Mrs. Collins. She was, indeed, gone. "Yes. Good evening."

"Good journey."

Fitzwilliam made his way out to his horse and untethered her, mounting and riding swiftly toward the path leading back to the main road. He wanted to return to Rosings, to assure himself that Mrs. Collins had returned safely, to pack his belongings and prepare for the journey to London, but he was torn, remembering Parkinson's warning that Reg and his men would be moving the very next morning. It was already nearing eleven o'clock, he guessed, and returning to Rosings would delay his departure by at least two hours. He reached the dark, empty road and slowed his mount, still uncertain.

"Colonel!" a voice hissed from a blackness at the side of the road that appeared to be trees.

"Who is that?"

"'Tis I, Colonel," said Mrs. Collins, stepping out into the pale moonlight.

He dismounted immediately and led his horse off the road. As he entered the dark copse of trees, he saw Locken waiting against a wagon concealed there. He took Mrs. Collins' hands, raising them to his lips in relief. "I did not see you leave. I worried something had happened."

"I thought it wisest to make my escape while Mr. Monsdale was still occupied. Are you well?"

"Not even a scratch," he chuckled. "Those poor, greedy fellows were no match for a member of His Majesty's Army."

"I am so glad. I heard what Mr. Parkinson told you. You are for London?"

"Yes. There is no time to return and speak to Lady Catherine. I fear she will be in great need of solacing, but as I am not the most patient of men, I suppose I would be of little help to her anyway."

"I do wonder about her reaction tomorrow when she finds Miss de Bourgh missing. Mrs. Jenkinson will probably have left also. She will be so alone."

"Alone, and as poor as a church mouse, I fear." He shook his head. "Perhaps I should not have let Anne leave, but I was not sure what better choice I could make. Had we not been under duress, I probably would have told her to keep ten-thousand after the debt was paid and return the rest to her mother."

"You would not have stopped her from leaving?"

"Did you hear Parkinson say she is with child? No, I would not have stopped her. What happiness would there have been for any of us had I forced her to return?"

"Oh, my. Well, I suppose I made the right decision then."

"What do you mean?"

He could just catch her movements as she reached quite boldly down the bodice of her dress and withdrew a thin stack of papers. "From what I have counted, I seem to have left her with approximately twelve-thousand pounds, if she had exactly ninety-thousand."

"But… How did you… When?"

"Anne is remarkably unobservant," Mrs. Collins replied, sounding slightly smug. "I simply reached into her bag while she was watching the others across the room and withdrew all but a few notes."

"Mrs. Collins, you are a remarkably fantastic woman!" Before he had realized what he was doing, he had pulled her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers fiercely.

It was several seconds, several long, shockingly-pleasurable seconds, before Mrs. Collins finally pulled herself away with a sharp gasp. "Colonel!" she rebuked.

"Forgive me, madam," he replied gravely, his fingers aching to pull her back to him. He suspected, given her ardent response, that had Locken not been present, convincing her to return to his arms would have proven a dangerously simple task. "I was simply caught up in my gratitude. I meant no disrespect."

She cleared her throat, taking another step back from him. He could see her widened eyes reflecting the moonlight. "Of course." She inhaled deeply before pronouncing, "You should go."

"Yes." He shook himself and took a few steps toward his horse. "Yes, I shall. You will return the money to Lady Catherine?"

"Indeed, and I will offer her whatever consolation she will accept from me. Godspeed to you, sir."

"Farewell, Mrs. Collins. And thank you."

He mounted and rode toward London as quickly as he could manage in the darkness. It was a long time before the chill of the long, lonely ride could break through Fitzwilliam's ruminations on that kiss.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: I'm posting another two chapters today, as I'm hoping to have everything wrapped up by the first week of February at the latest. Thanks for all the support/interest/commentary regarding this story. I apologize in advance to those of you who are going to spend the next few chapters annoyed at me for the lack of Lizzy/Darcy moments-as you'll see, it's just the way the cookie crumbled. There are some final lessons for our characters to learn thanks to this side track._

 _Disclaimer: I did not write_ Pride and Prejudice. _If I had, it would have been much less fun, mostly because I would have killed off George Wickham in the first thirty pages._

 _Chapter Ten_

Lizzy had just emerged from her room and greeted the Tanners at the breakfast table the next morning when there was an urgent knocking on the door.

Young Mr. Tanner opened it and frowned at the unkempt boy standing on the steps. "Yes, lad?"

"Message, sir, for a Mr. Welton."

Mr. Darcy appeared beside the boy on the stairs, apparently just descending from the upper story. He held his hand out to the boy. "I am he."

The boy shoved a wrinkled slip of paper into Mr. Darcy's hand then held the other out expectantly. Mr. Darcy dropped a coin in the boy's palm and he darted off the steps, disappearing into the early morning.

"What does it say?" Lizzy asked as Mr. Darcy strode inside, closing the door behind him. He removed his hat quickly and hung it himself before crossing to the fireplace and unfolding the dirty sheet of paper.

"Roland says he learned something vital. He is waiting even now at The Iron Ox. He says we must hurry."

"This is a blasted inconvenient time for him to suddenly honor our wishes about keeping away from the house," Old Tanner groused, standing creakily from his half-eaten meal and donning his cap.

Jacob rose as well and crossed silently to his hat and coat. He looked grave.

Lizzy pressed her stomach, her insides curling and twisting. She was unaccountably nervous suddenly. "I wish you did not have to go," she said to all of them, although her eyes lingered longest on Mr. Darcy. "What can he have learned that would be so urgent?"

"Perhaps he has found out the group's next move," Mr. Darcy said, replacing his hat and moving toward the door. "Or he may have intercepted information someone else brought about us. We cannot know until we speak with him."

Lizzy watched the men's preparations, exchanging dismayed glances with Mrs. Tanner, but it was not until they were out the door that she gathered enough courage to speak again. She rushed to the doorway, preventing Mrs. Tanner from finishing closing it. "Mr. Welton!"

Mr. Darcy paused on the stairs, looking back at her. Oh, he was painfully handsome, the pale pre-dawn light accentuating the hard, strong edges of his features. Her new feelings, still so raw and unexamined despite the hours she had spent the previous day and night considering them, rose up in her chest, threatening to steal her breath.

"Miss Beatty?"

"I… I have a terrible feeling about this. Are you certain you must go?"

He climbed the stairs until he stood before her. She wanted to reach out to him, but he stood quite stiffly with his arms straight at his sides. "I promised you that I would be careful, and I will keep that promise. Between the three of us, we will be perfectly safe."

"I know, truly I do. Only I cannot quench the idea that something awful is going to happen."

He frowned at her, his eyes traveling over her face. "Has something in particular upset you?"

She appreciated that he was not ignoring her concerns. "No, there is no overt reason, only what was discussed yesterday." She sighed. "I know I am being ridiculous."

"It is natural that you should be concerned for us, especially given that all you can do is wait here quietly for our return. But, as we have decided already, all will be well." He leaned forward slightly, although his eyes darted to the neighboring stoops and windows, and lowered his voice. "Do you believe that?"

She felt some of her panic lift, although the underlying anxiety remained. "Yes, I do."

"Then you need have no fear for us."

He moved as if to reach out to her, to squeeze her hands, but stopped as he glanced around again at the windows. Lizzy was struck with a sudden realization. He had been so aloof sometimes during the past few days, so controlled and separate, just as he was being now, but the cause was not a lack of affection. His eyes were almost wild with his frustration at being unable to offer her any physical form of comfort. He was, in his own way, still attempting to protect her, to salvage her reputation and treat her with all the honor he could. It had been impossible when they had been with Smythe and his men, but he was proving to her now that he wanted to treat her with respect.

He was proving once again, in the only way he could allow himself, that he still loved her.

She wanted to throw herself into his arms, to laugh and cry and yell with joy, but she knew how such a public display would mortify him, maybe even make him feel guilty. So instead, she did the only thing she could do on a public street, however empty it was.

She caught his gaze and held it hard. "For you."

He frowned, although he did not look away. "What?"

"I need have no fear for _you_."

"I do not understand."

"As much as I care for and respect both Tanner men, it is _you_ , sir, for whom I fear. It is you whose safety matters most to me. It is you upon whose return my contentment most depends."

His eyes were suddenly so wide and dark that Lizzy thought she might fall into them.

"Truly, Elizabeth?" he breathed.

She nodded, too full of emotion to manage speech.

They stood over a foot apart, his hands still at his sides while hers were wringing her apron. Neither of them moved, yet somehow, she felt as warmed by the force of his gaze as she had that morning she had lain in his arms.

Several seconds later, he finally opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by a call from the street. "Welton! Come along, man!"

"I shall return as soon as I can," he assured her, sounding almost breathless. He took her hand as she offered it and bowed over it quite formally, but the kiss he left on her fingers was almost reverent. He spun and made his way hastily down the stairs.

Lizzy stood on the stoop to watch them go, one hand pressed to her chest and the other cooling her heated cheeks. Her heart leaped when Mr. Darcy looked back before rounding the corner and tipped his hat to her. She waved in answer, feeling like a foolish young girl but unable to help herself.

"That was adorable," Mrs. Tanner said from behind her.

Lizzy spun and blushed deeply at the smug smile on her friend's face, but she huffed and attempted to look nonchalant as she crossed to the door.

"That truly was adorable," said a sneering voice behind her.

Lizzy's panic was instant and fierce, and she tried to spin, but a strong arm clamped around her body as a hand covered her mouth. She attempted to cry out, as much from the pain of the fingers crushing the still-tender wound on her shoulder as from fear, but the hand pressed her lips closed so hard that she could barely draw in air, let alone make much noise. She struggled, stomping down with both feet, but the man was wearing heavy workman's boots that provided him immunity. He hissed into her ear. "Struggle all you want, lovey, but you'll find no aid here."

Lizzy wanted to keep fighting, despite her ineffectiveness, but his hand on her face made it difficult to catch her breath, so she subsided, hoping to be able to focus her efforts more intelligently. She looked for Mrs. Tanner, but she moaned as she saw that Laura was being similarly held by an alarmingly familiar man.

He smiled when he saw her recognition. "Have you missed me, Miss Bennet?" Reg, Lord Smythe's right-hand man, was holding Mrs. Tanner in an iron grip despite her panicked squirming. "Close the door!"

Someone shut the door behind them, meaning that there were at least three villains present. Was Lord Smythe among them this time? Strangely, Lizzy hoped he was. Somehow, entirely at odds with what she would have said about her experience, she was no longer afraid of Lord Smythe. But Reg? He was entirely unknown.

"Now, now," Reg said into Mrs. Tanner's ear as her movements began to slow. Her eyes were wide and frightened as she stared ahead at Lizzy. "I do not intend to harm you, madam. If you cooperate, no harm will come to you or Miss Bennet. She is simply a means to an end, and if you will agree to do me one simple favor, I promise she will be returned to her family and friends whole and in good time. Can I depend on you?"

It took Mrs. Tanner a moment but she finally nodded.

"Good. I am going to tie you to this chair and gag you, but when your men return here, they will untie you, and you must give our dear Mr. Darcy a message. You must tell him that he is to bring fifty-thousand pounds to room six of The Iron Ox at eleven o'clock Wednesday night. That is approximately three days from now. He is to come alone, to leave the sum in a satchel on top of the bed, then exit quickly and return here. If he complies, and if the amount is discovered to be sufficient, Miss Bennet will be returned to him within the following twenty-four hours. Do you understand?"

Mrs. Tanner nodded again, tears streaming over her cheeks.

"I am going to uncover your mouth so that you can repeat it back to me."

She did so haltingly, very careful to get the details correct. He congratulated her on her excellent memory as he dragged her into the chair, tied down her arms and legs, and gagged her with a dishcloth. He stood then, smiling pleasantly at Lizzy. Oh, how she hated these men and their gentlemanly smiles.

"Let us be off then, Miss Bennet. My friend here is going to release you now, but if you draw any attention to yourself as we move down the front stairs and into the waiting cab, your poor friend here will suffer the consequences. Do you understand?"

A grizzled man in workman's clothing moved into Lizzy's view, probably the one who had been standing guard at the back door, and moved in front of Mrs. Tanner, brandishing a well-sharpened knife.

Lizzy nodded quickly, then drew in a deep gasp of air as the man released her. She tugged away from him and looked back with a glare, noticing his coal-black hair and red nose as well as his intimidating size. She did not recognize either him or the man with the knife from the last time.

The villain grinned impudently back at her but did not speak.

"Follow me, please," Reg requested.

Lizzy turned to face him, although she kept the other two men in her view. "May I at least take a coat and bonnet, Reg?"

Lizzy's hope to return to her room, where she had secreted the dagger stolen from Lord Smythe, was thwarted when Reg took down the coat from the hook and pulled Mrs. Tanner's bonnet from the back corner of a chair. "Any other requests?"

"Might I use the privy?"

Reg laughed. "I am afraid not, dear lady. But do not worry—the first leg of our journey will be short. Now come." His demeanor changed, and she felt fear again at the threat in his expression. "Follow me quietly, Miss Bennet."

She nodded again and followed him from the room, casting a final, reassuring look back at poor Mrs. Tanner, who was sobbing uncontrollably in her chair. She moved through the front door and into the street as casually as possible, even accepting Reg's polite assistance into the carriage. After she was settled beside him, first one man and then the last one joined them and they pulled away.

Every clap of the horses' hooves felt like a crack in her heart. She was afraid for herself, yes, but even more, she was afraid of what Mr. Darcy's reaction would be when he discovered her missing, when he heard the message. He would be so terribly angry, and angry men were not always wise.

"Where are we going?" she asked docilely.

"First to a little tavern in Piccadilly to change our transportation, and then," Reg said, a gleam of what might be excitement in his eye, "home, Miss Bennet. We are going home."

* * *

He really must stop all these night rides, Fitzwilliam thought as he tied his tired mount, one he had traded for at a carriage stop just before dawn, to the low iron fence and climbed the back steps to the Tanner's flat. He paused on the stoop, eyeing the newly risen sun. It was quite early still, and he ought to speak to Darcy first. He climbed the next flight and knocked quietly on the door, then more loudly, then descended again, assuming Darcy must be breakfasting with the family.

He knocked on the lower door, but there was no response despite the light he could see flickering in a window several feet to the side. He knocked again more loudly and waited some time, but still no one answered. Perhaps they had all gone out? But no, Darcy had intended to keep Miss Bennet well-hidden in the house at all times. Had they been instructed not to answer the door?

He called through the door as loudly as he dared, "Mr. Tanner? Mrs. Tanner? 'Tis I, Mr. Barker!"

He had just determined that there was truly no one home when he heard a strange sort of tapping noise coming from inside the house. It was arrhythmic yet quite deliberate, certainly enough to catch his attention. A dark feeling swept through him. He tried the door and found it unresisting.

A fair-haired woman, Mrs. Tanner, was seated at the breakfast table with her back to him. He had just begun to apologize profusely for his rude entrance when his eyes adjusted to the low light and he saw the cloth tied around her face. He darted forward, alarm shocking him into movement, and used his fumbling fingers to untie the tear-soaked gag. "My dear madam, what has happened?"

She gasped as the cloth released, her cheeks red from crying and from the gag being tied too tightly. "Oh, sir! She's gone! They've taken her!"

"Miss Bennet?" He drew a short knife from the top of his boot and began sawing at the bindings around her limbs. "When? Who? Where have they taken her?"

"I know not who," she sobbed. "But she recognized one of them, the main one. He had long, dark hair and was dressed as a workman. He called her Miss Bennet—that is her real name?"

"Yes, yes. How long ago?"

She turned her head to see a small clock on the mantel. "Thirty-five minutes or so. Only that long? It felt like hours!"

Fitzwilliam finished releasing her, and she fell into his arms. He patted her back awkwardly as she cried. How he disliked teary women! "Now, now, Mrs. Tanner. We must think. Where are your menfolk? Where is Darcy?"

"They went out. They received a message from Jacob's father and went to The Iron Ox. I… oh!"

She had been interrupted by the door swinging open and four men entering the room. She launched herself away from Fitzwilliam and ran to her young husband, crying his name in relief.

"What's happened?" Darcy asked, surprised and worried at the sight of his cousin. "What are you doing here?"

"What I learned in Kent was too urgent to leave to a courier, so I came to warn you, but it appears…" Fitzwilliam sighed, the shock having worn off enough for concern for Miss Bennet to seep through. "…it appears I arrived too late."

"What do you mean?" Darcy's eyes widened and he spun, searching the room then moving toward the back hallway. "Where is Elizabeth? Miss Bennet! Miss Bennet!"

"They have taken her, Darce. I arrived less than five minutes ago and found Mrs. Tanner tied to that chair and Miss Bennet missing."

Darcy ran down the back hallway, his boots thudding heavily against the floorboards as he checked each room before emerging, his movements wild. "She is not here!"

"There were three men," Mrs. Tanner said through her tears. Her husband was examining the raw rashes on her cheeks and looking fierce. "She recognized one of them—he knew her real name. He… he told me to give you a message, Mr. Darcy."

He crossed to her and tugged her out of her husband's grip, holding her by her shoulders and staring into her eyes as if she were an oracle. "Tell me."

"He said… he said that you are to bring fifty-thousand pounds to room… room six of The Iron Ox at eleven o'clock on Wednesday evening. You are to leave the money in a bag of some kind on the bed then return here. You are to come alone. He says that if the amount is present and satisfactory, Livvy… that is, Miss Bennet, will be returned to you within… within twenty-four hours."

"Fifty-thousand pounds?" Old Mr. Tanner asked gruffly. "That is an astronomical sum of money."

"I had that much money within inches of me only hours ago," Fitzwilliam muttered. "If only I had known we would need it."

"It will take significant effort on the part of my man of business to finish the withdrawal so quickly, but I can get it," Darcy murmured, releasing Mrs. Tanner back into her husband's embrace and dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. He moved to the fireplace, staring into the low flames. "It is her safety in the meantime that concerns me most. Mrs. Tanner, what did the man look like, the one Elizabeth recognized?"

"He… had dark hair, long. He was of average height though quite strong. He was terribly polite once he had tied me down. His name… she called him something short… I cannot…"

"Reg?"

"Yes! Yes, that was his name!"

Darcy pounded his fist against the hearthstones. "I will kill him. I will find him and murder him. Why could he not have simply left us alone?"

"Reg is taking over the business from Smythe without Smythe's knowledge," Fitzwilliam explained. "Perhaps he is changing the business model—or simply using you to restart operations with a healthy influx of capital."

"How do you know that?" Darcy asked.

"From Parkinson, the man who accosted Miss Bennet on the boardwalk in Dover."

"Scissors? The one in need of a haircut?"

"Possibly, yes. His name is Francis Parkinson. He is to be our cousin soon, although that will not matter overly much given that they shall soon have left for America."

"What?"

Fitzwilliam sighed. "There is much with which to acquaint you."

"Obviously, but I find I care for nothing just now but finding a way to remove Elizabeth from their clutches." He spun suddenly toward the corner of the kitchen, where the fourth man, the one whose presence Fitzwilliam had entirely forgotten, was leaning against the counter and watching them all with bright eyes. "Tanner, tell me again everything you learned from the contact in Covent Garden last night."

The handsome-yet-dilapidated fellow stepped forward, his hat in his hand and a humble expression on his face. "As I told you earlier, sir, I was ushered into a back room, and I informed the man with the long, dark hair that I might have seen the couple he was seeking, that they were posing as a brother and sister who had just taken rooms in a boarding house in Paddington. He seemed interested in my description of you and told me that he would send someone to investigate. If I was correct, he would notify me this evening and pay the reward in full.

"I decided to sample the wares the place had to offer, and as the young woman led me up the stairs, I overheard the same man conversing with two others, mentioning something about their quarry having been discovered in Islington and 'moving forward' this afternoon, at which point they could make their way to Oxford to 'wait him out.' I, of course, had to behave as if I had not heard, so I entered the woman's room and… well, I was not able to escape unsuspiciously until early this morning, at which time I immediately summoned you. Given what I had heard, I thought I had plenty of time left. That is all."

"Then we shall go to Oxford," Darcy said, already moving toward the door, no doubt to pack his things upstairs and rush away.

"Wait, Darcy," Fitzwilliam said slowly, his eyes hard on the man he assumed was Roland Tanner. He stepped forward just as slowly, and his behavior raised some concern on the man's face. "I think perhaps we ought to question Mr. Tanner more thoroughly."

"Why?" Mr. Tanner asked, attempting to look nonchalant. The twitch under his eye, however, betrayed his sudden anxiety. "I have already told you everything I can remember."

"Parkinson told me that yesterday morning, just before he abandoned his post with Reg and left London, a man came to them, a man who claimed to have certain knowledge of their proposed quarry, even knowing your name, Darce. He told them that you and a young lady were hiding in Islington, even gave them the address."

Fitzwilliam felt the three other men in the room come to stand at his sides, all of them facing Roland Tanner with balled fists.

"And you think that was me?" Tanner asked with horrified, exaggerated innocence. "I would never betray you, Mr. Darcy! You are paying me most handsomely, as you pointed out just the other day."

"But accepting even a small share of a fifty-thousand-pound ransom in return for that betrayal, on top of the money Darcy has already paid you would be tempting to many far better men than yourself," Old Tanner said gravely, eyeing his son with such deep distaste that Fitzwilliam expected him to spit on the floor.

"I am innocent!" he repeated as the half-circle around him closed in more tightly. "You have no proof that I have done such a thing beyond wild supposition!"

"He is right," Darcy said, barely containing his fury. "Someone else could have seen and recognized me here."

"The truth of his innocence should be easy enough to discover," Fitzwilliam offered. "We must simply return ask the proprietress of the establishment where he claims to have spent last night, and question his companion regarding with whom he spoke, when he arrived, and what time he left."

"Yes, ask her," Tanner said, shrugging far too casually. Fitzwilliam had spent too many hours of his life, several of them recently, around a gambling table to miss the symptoms of deep anxiety beneath his brash bluff.

"Very well," Fitzwilliam agreed, rising and moving toward the door. "Give me the address, and I will return within the hour with her answers." He paused then, looking back over his shoulder at the man who had shrunken against the kitchen shelf. "But if I discover that the woman's answers differ from yours in any way, Tanner, I will return and strike you down like a bolt of lightning hitting a sparrow. Between myself and Darcy, the handsome, trustworthy visage upon which much of your dishonest living probably relies will never be the same."

"Well, you see," the man squeaked, "now that I think on it, I do not quite remember the exact location of the brothel…" His voice trailed away as Darcy stepped forward, towering over him with a poker from the fireplace ready in his hand. The entire room stared daggers at him as he attempted to swallow. Finally, his voice so thin it was difficult to hear, he murmured, "Reg's men and Miss Bennet are on their way to Buckinghamshire, a manor outside of Amersham."

Darcy raised the poker as if to strike, his features so hard that even Fitzwilliam was a little afraid of him. Tanner held up his hands to fend off the blow and added hastily, "I do not know the manor's name, but it belongs to Lord Smythe. They plan to arrive there tonight, to remain there in hiding for two days, then return to London with Miss Bennet and send her to you as soon as the ransom has been retrieved. Some of the men argued for staying in London, but Reg was insistent about the journey."

"And what was your part in all this?" Darcy rasped, the poker still in the air above his head.

"I was…" Tanner swallowed, so shrunken he seemed more like a child than a man, "I was to lead you on a fruitless search through Paddington with false information in order to keep you occupied, just in case you had managed to learn more of them than they expected. In return I would be paid three thousand pounds from the ransom and…"

"And what?" Darcy roared.

"And I would get to accompany a blindfolded Miss Bennet back here… at whatever time I saw fit within the twenty-four-hour allotment."

They all stood for several seconds, frozen in a miserable tableau. Darcy, with his eyes on fire and the poker high in the air, the oldest Tanner staring in disgust at his miserable offspring, the youngest Tanner watching his father with equal parts fury and shame while gripping the hand of his swollen-eyed wife, whose other hand was hiding only part of her stricken expression. Fitzwilliam's gaze traveled from one to another, finally resting on his cousin.

"None of us would blame you for striking him, Darcy," he said, stepping forward cautiously, "but I fear once you began you might not be able to stop, and I seriously doubt you could convince Miss Bennet to marry you in prison."

Slowly, an inch at a time, Darcy lowered his arm. He dropped the poker with a clatter that drew a cry from Mrs. Tanner. "You are right," he said to Fitzwilliam, although his eyes remained on the man before him. "There are more important things to do."

"Yes," Fitzwilliam said, releasing a relieved breath. "You must visit your solicitor, and then we must ride for Amersham."

"I wish we were at Pemberley," Darcy said fiercely, finally turning to him. "I would feel better riding to Amersham with a group of loyal men at my back."

"We could stop at Darcy House," Fitzwilliam suggested.

"Connors is too old… but John and Matthew, the footmen, could be trusted. I believe Matthew even has some boxing experience. I doubt, however, that they have ever handled pistols, or even dueling swords."

"They will be better than nothing," Fitzwilliam replied. "Write me out a missive for your staff, and you go to see your solicitor while I collect John and Matthew and gather mounts and weapons. We will meet you at the first carriage stop outside the city on the Oxford Road."

"Very good." Darcy looked relieved, hope revived in his countenance. He turned to the Tanners. "I am more grateful than I can say for the haven you provided for myself and Elizabeth these past days. I am only sorry to leave you in such haste and under such circumstances."

"No, sir," young Tanner said, stepping forward and hanging his head. "We are sorry that it is through your reliance on us that Miss Bennet was abducted. If you wish me to accompany you to Buckinghamshire, it would be the least I could do, although I have little experience as a fighter."

Darcy grabbed the young man's hand and shook it heartily. "You have already aided us in every way possible, and your father's perfidy has nothing to do with you. In fact, your having turned out so well speaks immensely well of you, especially considering his influence. Stay here with your family and take good care of them, but be assured, anytime I am in London and in need of a surgeon, I will call on you."

The young man was taken aback but smiled after a moment. "Thank you, sir."

Darcy then bowed to the woman beside him. "My dear Mrs. Tanner, your kindness to Elizabeth has been… I cannot even begin to express…"

She curtsied shyly. "It has been my pleasure to know her, sir. Please keep her safe, whatever happens." She smiled hopefully and added, "I hope that once she is Mrs. Darcy, she will be allowed to write to me."

Darcy smiled at her grimly. "When I have retrieved her, and _if_ I can convince her to accept me, madam, I will send the invitation for you to dine with us at Darcy House myself."

He turned to the older man then, but his words seemed to fail. "Tanner, I…"

The old man clasped Darcy's forearms. "No more farewells, young fool. Your lady awaits. You shall see us again soon enough."

Darcy nodded and moved back just in time to spin to the door at the sound of Mrs. Tanner's cry. Fitzwilliam lunged forward and grabbed Roland Tanner's arms as he attempted to disappear outside, trapping them behind his back, and Darcy followed with a fist aimed right at the man's nose. The crunch was loud enough to make everyone in the room cringe.

Tanner dropped to the ground, bending over and howling with pain, blood pooling on the floorboards beneath his face.

Darcy bent to raise him up, looking sheepish yet satisfied as he shook out his hand.

"Go," Old Tanner said, waving them out the door. "We shall clean him up and keep him here for a few days so he cannot cause more trouble."

The two men nodded and moved outside. Darcy ran up the stairs to retrieve a small bag of personal items (and, Fitzwilliam suspected, leave a very generous rent payment), and then the two men moved down the side street, leading Fitzwilliam's horse.

When they reached High Street, Darcy hailed a cab. "I shall meet you on the Oxford Road, but it may take some time. I thought of someone else we can trust who may be willing to help us, so I shall stop to collect him on my way."

"Who?"

"Bingley."

Fitzwilliam raised his eyebrows. "Charles Bingley? I would not have imagined him as very valuable in a fight."

"Then obviously you have never dueled with him," Darcy chuckled darkly. "He has a strong distaste for violence, but that seems to have no effect on his skill with a blade… or with a pistol, come to think of it. I only hope he has returned from Scarborough."

"Good luck then."

"And to you."

Darcy swung up into the cab, shouting the direction, but Fitzwilliam was already mounting and riding toward Grosvenor Square before the cab had pulled away. He patted his horse on the neck as they trotted forward. "Worry not, old girl. I shall not drag you to Buckinghamshire with me. It will be one thing if I collapse from exhaustion in the saddle but another thing entirely if you collapse on the road. Good thing I had Charlemagne sent to his usual stable here before I left London.

"What I would not give for this to be over. But I am a soldier, eh? And a soldier never falters. Not even when he wishes to."


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: I am not Jane Austen. Still._

 _Chapter Eleven_

It was early evening by the time Elizabeth was ushered into a dusty bedchamber on the second floor of a decrepit manor house some few miles outside of the last town through which they had passed. She wanted to rest, to flop herself on her stomach across the faded counterpane on the thin mattress and go straight to sleep, but she remembered Mr. Darcy's advice from several days before about a gentle walk being the best method for relieving saddle-induced stiffness, so she mustered her will and remained upright, occupying herself by testing the doors and window of the little chamber. As she had assumed, all were tightly sealed, which explained the musty odor clinging to every surface.

A part of her felt guilty that through the course of the carriage ride, several hours on the back of Reg's horse, and several breaks at carriage stops and rushing streams along the way, she had not managed to escape. She had watched for opportunities, but Reg was an attentive captor, and she was quite certain that either pleading for mercy or feigning illness would have an equal lack of effect on her circumstance except to make him more wary of her. Therefore, she had remained docile, eaten what she was given, made no requests, and kept her eyes wide open despite the tiredness that had stolen over her some hours into the trip.

At least she was used to wearing the men's clothing they had given her this time. She had even tied a decent, plain knot in her own cravat, thanks to a good-humored lesson Mr. Darcy had given her two evenings before when she had remarked on her lack of skill in that area.

Perhaps it was strange, but she had not found herself to be terribly afraid. Certainly she was in a vulnerable position and could easily be victimized, but the circumstances felt oddly familiar. Unlike the last time she had been taken, a part of her had been expecting the occurrence, which had removed some of the apprehension upon its actually happening. Also unlike the last time, there had been no references of any kind to the allure of her company or threats made against her maidenhood. Reg had treated her rather more like a saddlebag than a desirable woman, thank goodness.

The only emotions she seemed to be feeling in excess through the course of the day were anger at the man's presumption—why could he simply not have left them in peace?—and worry for Mr. Darcy's state of mind. He would not know how she was being treated, that she felt relatively safe with these men despite the circumstances, or where she had been taken. He had instead been left in London with only a request for a disgraceful sum of money and a promise that she would be returned unharmed in three or four days' time. He would be blaming himself, of course, as he seemed to always do.

She found herself gazing out the window, watching the last, lingering light of the sun, which had sunk below the horizon just minutes before they had arrived. She imagined Mr. Darcy's face as it must be at this moment, that familiar expression of self-recrimination. Were she beside him, would she have the courage to reach out and smooth the lines above his brows? She would certainly attempt to cajole him into a more sensible humor, to erase his regret and turn his thoughts toward finding a solution.

But what were his choices? He could either gather the funds to pay the ransom, or he could call on the Bow Street Runners and attempt to lay a trap for whomever Reg sent to collect the money. Neither idea was terribly appealing. Lizzy considered for a moment the possibility that he might refuse to pay such a shocking amount for her return, but she pushed it aside, choosing not to dishonor him or the true affection she was now certain he had for her by imagining a selfishness that was not there. He would pay the money without a single complaint, and he would never hold it against her, not for a single moment. It might even bring him a twisted sense of satisfaction to know he had sacrificed so much for her well-being.

No, the real source of Lizzy's lingering anxiety was what would happen when she and Maria had not arrived at the Gardiner's at the expected time three days hence. Surely Charlotte would attempt an excuse, but Lizzy's family would already be growing suspicious by now of her total silence for the past week, and if she did not appear in Cheapside on Monday, it would be perfectly reasonable for them to begin an investigation, for Uncle Gardiner or her father to ride to Kent and check on her. Would she be returned before a true alarm had been raised, before the world discovered all that had occurred and her reputation became tarnished?

And would all of Mr. Darcy's affections and their shared experience these past days be enough to bring him to humble himself before her again, to offer for her a second time, in spite of not only her lack of fortune, connections, and sensible relations but also a ruined reputation?

The thought only fueled her anxiety and anger. Why could Smythe and his men not have simply left her alone?

That consideration brought her up short. It had seemed odd to her all day, the way Smythe's men were behaving, the way they avoided eyes and slunk behind stables and kept looking over their shoulders. Even Reg, who had seemed downright jaunty sometimes, had continually cast glances behind him as they rode. During her first abduction (she had to wonder how many people in England could say they had been abducted _more_ than once), the atmosphere among the men had been quite businesslike, almost comfortable despite their general silence. They had a familiarity with someone in nearly every place they had stopped, and although they had been wary of Lizzy and Mr. Darcy attempting to run away, they had not seemed so guarded.

Today they had all been tense, both the men she had recognized from before like Cleft Chin and Scar Hand, and those who were not familiar. Their movements and conversations had been furtive, secretive, and… well, ashamed. She was uncertain why, but they had all seemed _ashamed_ of something.

And where, through all of this, was Lord Smythe himself? Was this moldering old house his home? Or Reg's? Or just a place they liked to lie low? Only two servants had greeted them when they had burst unceremoniously into the kitchen upon arrival, and they had scurried to do Reg's bidding quick enough, but they certainly had not been glad to see him.

Lizzy shook her head as she paced, feeling too tired to analyze yet unable to quiet her thoughts. She occupied herself with changing back into her dress, which one of her captors had tossed carelessly onto the bed as they had entered.

Oh, if she were to be locked in this room alone until Wednesday, they might find her quite mad when she was finally released.

She drew in a surprised breath at the sound of a key turning in the lock, moving as quickly as her body could manage to the far corner of the chamber and assuring herself that she was fully finished dressing. Belatedly, Lizzy realized she ought to have tried to find a weapon and attacked her captor before attempting an escape, but being as she was alone and not even certain of her location, she decided it was probably better that she had not tried it.

A head poked inside along with a single candle, a feminine face with simply-coiled auburn hair. "Hello?" the woman called, her voice distinctly nervous.

Something about her tone relaxed Lizzy and she stepped forward slowly out of the shadows. "Who are you?"

The woman moved inside, her slight frame struggling under a heavy wooden tray. She pushed the door closed behind her with her foot, and Lizzy noted that the door remained unlocked. "I have brought you some food. Normally Mr. and Mrs. Jones would do this sort of thing, but they are preparing rooms for Geoff's men."

Lizzy looked the woman over in the faltering candlelight, the sun having set long enough ago that the light from outside was useless. Her dress was not extraordinarily fine, but it was much too nice for a servant to wear. "You are… the mistress here?"

"I suppose so." The woman… really more of a girl, Lizzy realized as she came nearer… seemed uncomfortable with the idea. She rested the tray carefully on a three-legged table near the wardrobe, then turned and curtsied to Lizzy, a movement that did not come naturally to her. "I am Mrs. Talmadge, Geoff's wife. You can call me Tilda."

"Talmadge? Then his name is not really Smythe?"

The young woman frowned, looking far more defeated than Lizzy thought was justified. "Oh. I forgot he uses a false name for all this. I suppose I should not have said anything."

"You are very kind to bring me supper," Lizzy said, hoping to raise the girl's spirits. She could not promise to keep secret the accidental information, but something about the girl tugged at Lizzy's heart. "All they gave me on the way was stale bread and ale."

Mrs. Talmadge frowned more deeply. "Truly? I thought Geoff always insisted on his abductees being well-fed and treated. Reg and the others did not hurt you, did they?"

"No. I am only hungry, saddle-sore, and weary."

"I am sorry for that. I am sorry for _all_ of this." The girl pulled a rickety chair from against the wall and began, with some difficulty, to pull it toward the table. "Please sit."

Lizzy watched her closely, surprised that such a light burden should cause such difficulty, and it was only upon minute inspection that Lizzy noticed the slight bulge of a rounded middle hidden under Mrs. Talmadge's dress. "Oh! You are with child! Please let me get my own chair!"

She took the chair out of the girl's hands and easily carried it to the table. It was not until she had placed it and sat down that she glanced back up and realized the girl had not moved. She was staring at Lizzy with a horror-stricken expression.

"Whatever is the matter?" Lizzy asked, carefully studying the limp vegetables and small wedge of beef on her plate. She could see nothing wrong with them besides their unattractive aspect.

"You… you can see that I am expecting?" Mrs. Talmadge squeaked.

"Well, it is not apparent when you stand still, but when you bent forward just now I could see it very clearly. I hope I have not been indelicate by noticing."

The poor girl slumped to the bed, leaning her temple against the post beside her. "I had fooled myself into thinking I could hide it longer."

Lizzy stared at the girl, full of uncertainty. "You do not wish Mr. Talmadge to know?"

"No," she whispered. "Not yet."

Lizzy pictured Lord Smythe's—that is, Mr. Talmadge's—face. He had made her nervous, yes, with his lecherous insinuations, but in hindsight, he had never been overtly cruel or purposely hurtful. As with his men, he had seemed like a very determined man of business.

"Will Mr. Talmadge be angry with you? Does he not wish for children?"

"He wants children very much," she sighed.

Lizzy knew she was prying, but the girl did not seem to mind, and she obviously needed someone in whom to confide given that she was confessing all this to a complete stranger. "Is it that _you_ do not wish for children?"

"I also want a child very much," she whispered before bursting into silent, wracking sobs.

Lizzy remained in her chair for several seconds. Never had she felt more awkward or uncertain. She was a captive in a stranger's tumble-down manor being held for an extraordinary ransom to be paid by a man whose suit for her hand she had violently rejected less than a fortnight before yet had come to love with a deep and abiding affection. She had spent all day in the saddle and was hungry and exhausted. And now a poor, unfortunate girl was sobbing in her room about a pregnancy she apparently wanted but felt she must hide from her husband, who also wanted a child (and happened to be Lizzy's captor).

Lizzy glanced longingly toward the unlocked door. She could leave now, and the girl would probably not notice for several minutes. The worst that could happen would be that she would be caught and returned to her room.

Yet in spite of that, she found herself rising to her feet, crossing to the bed, and sitting beside the girl before wrapping her arms around her and murmuring soothing nonsense. "Come now, come now. Everything is all right. All will be well."

The last phrase brought Mr. Darcy's face to her mind again. Good grief, how she wished he were here with her now! Not that he would know any better than she did what to do, but that seemed to have little effect on her longing for him.

Some minutes passed as the girl clung to Lizzy, trying to slow her tears and catch her breath. "I am sorry… so sorry. Please forgive me. You must think me… quite unhinged."

"I am told that being overly emotional is a common occurrence when one is carrying a child."

"I suppose there is some comfort in that, but everything just feels so overwhelming. What am I to do?"

Lizzy frowned. "About what? The child?"

"About Geoff. Reg says Geoff will be returning to England at the end of next week, expecting to gather the last of the debts and retire permanently to the Continent. I spent so many months dreaming of the small cottage in the countryside he has always wanted, the one he says he has finally found. We were to leave this rotten old place and all its troubles, our pasts and his gaming business and everything else that might cause us difficulty, and disappear into a new, quiet life. I have yearned for such freedom for so long, and now…" She seemed to pale, and her voice grew breathless. "…Now I can hardly bear the thought of him returning!"

"Do you not care for Mr. Talmadge anymore?"

"Oh, I do! I love him so fiercely that sometimes my heart aches fit to bursting!"

"Then why do you not wish for his return, for the end you say you have both sought for some time?"

"I… oh, I cannot… I cannot bear to speak it aloud. I… you see, some months ago, I was…"

She was interrupted by voices in the corridor and the pounding of heavy boots. "Tilda!"

"Oh, dear!" Mrs. Talmadge hissed, jumping to her feet and wiping her face. She scurried to the tray, trying to appear as if she had just arrived and was setting out the meal.

"Tilda!" The door swung open, and Reg strode inside, followed quickly by Scar Hand, who glared at Lizzy as if she had done something wrong. "What are you doing in here?"

She looked up at him innocently. "I was bringing the poor woman some supper."

"Mrs. Jones would have gotten to it… eventually," Reg answered, looking slightly abashed. "You should not be in here, especially alone. Miss Bennet can be quite devious."

"Are you saying she would harm me?" Mrs. Talmadge asked, surprised.

"She and her gentleman-friend bashed a sailor over the head and threatened Wellington in the process of their escape in Dover."

"Well, good for them," Mrs. Talmadge said, glaring at him. "I would do the same had someone carried me away from my friends and family."

He pursed his lips. "Still, I have no wish to see you harmed, my love."

It took a moment for Lizzy to register the endearment he had used. She stared back and forth between them, monumentally confused.

"Please, Reg," Mrs. Talmadge said, looking terribly downcast and motioning toward Scar Hand, who was watching from the doorway. She lowered her voice. "Not in front of the men."

"It will matter not, my darling," he said, moving forward and taking her hands, "as soon as you agree to come away with us to the north. The men will know the truth before long."

He looked so different to Lizzy suddenly, so unlike the sardonic, silent enforcer he had always seemed to her. Gone was his forbidding mien, and in its place was an expression of hopeful apprehension.

"Reg, you said you would give me time to consider," she whispered, eyeing Scar Hand uncomfortably.

"You are carrying my child, Tilda," Reg said, rubbing his hand over her middle possessively. "I want no one to doubt what is mine."

Lizzy stifled a gasp, remembering despite her surprise that she had no wish to be noticed. Scar Hand, however, had no such scruples. His eyebrows raised all the way to his hairline and he released a low whistle.

"Reg!" Mrs. Talmadge cried out as she jerked out of his grasp and covered her blushing cheeks with her hands. "Don't!"

"Leave us, Windham," Reg commanded Scar Hand nonchalantly. "Go make certain guards have been posted at the front and back entrances, and post a watch at the gate."

Scar Hand—Windham, apparently—nodded and left, pulling the door closed behind him.

"How could you?" Mrs. Talmadge shrieked as soon as the door closed. "Are you attempting to force my hand? You said my choice would be my own!"

"Forgive me, my love," he said, not looking nearly as repentant as Lizzy thought he should. "I am only eager to have the world know that you are mine."

"But I am not yours," Mrs. Talmadge insisted. "I am Geoff's by law."

"The roundness of your belly says otherwise."

"I cannot bear how flippantly you speak of betraying a man who calls you friend!"

"Geoff is my best friend, but he is a fool—he always has been—and now he is a cuckold. 'Tis only fitting, I say. He has mismanaged everything in his life, his inheritance, his business, and his marriage, and not prized them as he should, so it seems only right that both his occupation and his wife should belong to someone who will take better care of them." His words had returned the harshness to his expression that was more familiar to Lizzy, but he seemed to consciously soften again as he added, "And I will take care of you, Tildy. We will go north, and with me running the business, we will live quite comfortably. Our child would want for nothing, and no one there need ever know that we are not man and wife."

Mrs. Talmadge watched his face, hers a mask of indecision. "I still need time, Reg. You are to remain here for a few days, yes?"

He nodded and straightened, trying to hide his disappointment. "We will leave on Wednesday morning for London, and we will not return to Buckinghamshire ever again."

"Then you will know my answer by Wednesday morning."

They stood awkwardly for several moments, Reg obviously wanting to say more but unsure how to be more convincing. Lizzy shifted slightly, feeling their discomfort, and the bed beneath her creaked. Both Reg and Mrs. Talmadge looked surprised to see her sitting there. She attempted to remain expressionless.

"Come," Reg said gruffly, glaring at Lizzy as he put an arm around Mrs. Talmadge's shoulders. "Next time, allow Mrs. Jones to do her work."

Mrs. Talmadge nodded submissively, but just before he ushered her out the door, she looked back and met Lizzy's eyes, appearing to search for something. Then the door closed, and the key turned in the lock.

Lizzy dropped back on the lumpy mattress, staring at the threadbare canopy above her head. She knew not what to think! The poor girl appeared so innocent and professed her love for her husband faithfully, yet she was carrying the child of his best friend and considering running away with him. Lizzy wondered whether this was the sort of tale told in the sordid romance novels her father had never allowed her to read.

She found herself absurdly fascinated by the entire situation yet also sympathetic to each party. One, a man in love with his best friend's wife who found his way into her bed, the other a husband attempting to secure a peaceful, quiet home for a wife he cares for yet neglecting her in the process, and between them, a woman who loves her husband dearly but has made a mistake that puts his love at risk, so much so that she is considering running away with his dearest friend.

Somehow, their troubles made her own seem far less daunting.

She considered rising again to eat the meager meal, but as her eyes were already closed, it seemed most convenient to keep them that way. Her last thought was to wrap the counterpane over herself and imagine it was Mr. Darcy's arms that would warm her all night.

* * *

"We have no time for this, Fitzwilliam," Darcy growled from behind him as they made their way through a narrow hallway into the busy taproom of a tavern near the outskirts of Chalfont St. Peters.

"Make time, Darcy." Fitzwilliam was as tired and impatient as he was, possibly more so, and was in no mood to be polite. "The horses must rest, as well as the men, now that we are so close to our destination, and we need to gather information, to attempt to discover the name of the manor where they are keeping her.

"Would that not be simpler in Amersham?" Charles Bingley asked, moving beside them as Fitzwilliam banged on the bar to get the barkeep's attention. Bingley was cracking his knuckles and glancing restlessly around the room. Clearly, he had caught a great deal of Darcy's anxiety. "They would know this man Smythe and his companions better there, would they not?"

"Yes," Fitzwilliam agreed. "But they may know him too well. If they have loyalty toward him, or if a portion of his men hail from the area, they might report our questioning to the villains themselves."

"Ah."

"Five pints of ale!" Fitzwilliam called to the barkeep, who finally had the opportunity to attend to them. He motioned his companions to a table that had just opened in the back corner, and he joined them moments later carrying the tankards.

"Might I ask, sir," Darcy's footman John said humbly, twisting his cap in his hands, obviously uncomfortable keeping company in such a way with his master, "what we're to do next? Shall we attempt to question the other patrons?"

"Yes," Darcy said briskly, rising again himself. "We should…"

Fitzwilliam reached out and grabbed Darcy's arm, returning him to his seat. "Now, now, cousin, I know you are worried, but we must be strategic about this. If we five simply begin asking questions about a man named Geoffrey Smythe of anyone in the room at this moment, no one will speak to us. This does not seem a terribly suspicious lot, but people still tend to guard their own knowledge closely. We must filter in slowly, as if we are in no hurry and have nowhere to be, and strike up entirely unrelated conversations."

Matthew, the other footman, an extremely broad-shouldered young man with hair so fair it was almost white, looked troubled. "Strikin' up conversations wit' strangers idn't one of my skills, sir. I'll more'n likely make 'em too nervy to speak."

"You are a rather intimidating fellow," Fitzwilliam mused. "Perhaps you and your master should remain here to observe the room at large while Bingley, John and I work our way into some acquaintances."

"You cannot mean I should just sit here," Darcy scoffed. "I shall go mad."

"Would you rather join us? Do you think you can insinuate yourself into a game of cards without coming across as stuffy and uncomfortable?"

Darcy glared at him but could not defend himself against the assumption. Fitzwilliam patted his arm. "Sit here looking forbidding. We shall spend an hour being friendly, and if we have learned nothing, we shall move on to Amersham."

An hour and ten minutes later (Fitzwilliam could not prevent himself from glancing toward Darcy's pocket watch each time he pulled it from his waistcoat and muttered), Bingley finally returned to the table to join the four who were sitting there morosely, nursing another round of drinks. He was looking pensive. "Forgive me, Darcy, but that fellow was even more talkative than I am. He claims to know the area quite well—he has lived his entire life only a mile outside of Amersham—but he has never heard of a Lord Smythe, or any of the men whose names you gave me. I have learned nothing of any use."

"Neither has anyone else," Darcy said through clenched teeth. "I knew this was a fool's errand. We must move on to Amersham. Let us go."

All five men began pushing out their chairs, but they stopped when a man in a wide hat and long cloak appeared at the end of the table. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I could not help overhearing your discussion just now. Did you say you were trying to gather information about a Lord Smythe?"

Darcy narrowed his eyes as Fitzwilliam answered warily, "He is… an object of curiosity for us, yes. We are seeking his home. Know you something about him?"

"I may have a bit of information."

The man swept off his hat, and Darcy released a growl, rising to his feet. "You!"

"How nice to see you again, Mr. Darcy," the man said pleasantly as he bowed. His light-colored hair was pulled back in a jaunty tie, and his eyes were dancing with humor. Fitzwilliam thought his face seemed familiar. "Would you do me the honor of introducing me to your friends? I must say I am surprised to see you here."

Darcy lunged toward the gentleman, and it was only thanks to Fitzwilliam's and Bingley's combined efforts that they managed to keep him from dropping the fellow to the tavern floor.

"I will admit," the man said, stepping back warily and looking significantly less jolly, "that I did not expect quite such a hostile reception, sir. After all, I did allow you and your beloved to escape."

"Do not mock me, Smythe," Darcy hissed, Fitzwilliam still keeping him in his chair. " _Allow_ our escape?"

So this was the infamous Lord Smythe. He appeared to be exactly as Darcy and Miss Bennet had described him. Fitzwilliam realized with a start that his face was familiar because of the moderately accurate sketch Mrs. Collins had done from her servants' descriptions. What a marvel.

"Well, of course! You did not believe your movements across the deck of that packet were unseen, did you? I was very relieved to see you finally taking the opportunity—Wellington really was exhausted—for I had no idea what I would do with you once we had crossed the channel."

Darcy stared at him doubtfully, his nostrils flaring like a raging bull Fitzwilliam remembered from his months in Spain. "Even if it is true that you intended our escape, that only makes your further nefarious actions more absurd and deplorable. Why could you not have left us alone?"

The man Smythe frowned now, looking truly surprised. "I do not have the pleasure of understanding you, sir. I only returned to Dover last night, and although my crew returned some days ago, they were under no orders to further accost you." His frown deepened. "Although I have good reason to believe that they no longer take orders from me in any case. Thus the reason I have returned early—to discover what exactly has been going on in my absence."

"And I am simply to take your word for that?" Darcy barked. Fitzwilliam shushed him, aware of drawing the attention of the entire taproom. In a quieter but still strained voice, he continued, "Although I know for a fact that Elizabeth recognized at least one of her abductors as your lieutenant Reg, I am to believe you innocent of all involvement?"

All the man's confidence and bravado abandoned him, and he jerked over a chair from a nearby table, seating himself at the end of theirs and leaning in. "Reg abducted Miss Bennet? When?"

"This morning just after dawn," Fitzwilliam offered.

"So he is still attempting to collect Miss de Bourgh's debt?"

"No," Fitzwilliam answered grimly. "I myself witnessed the payment of the debt to Simon Monsdale in Coxton nearly twenty-four hours ago. As far as I know, Reg made no attempt to collect from Rosings before abducting Miss Bennet again, and he has asked for a ransom of fifty-thousand pounds, not the twenty she owed."

"And who are you, sir?"

"Darcy's cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. You are Lord Smythe?"

"In a manner of speaking. You were staying at Rosings as well, were you not? You are the other gentleman Molly told us about, the one who would sometimes visit the parsonage with Mr. Darcy."

"Molly?" Fitzwilliam asked. "Mrs. Collins' maid? I knew there was something suspicious about her behavior."

"Oh," Darcy said, sounding surprised. "Did I not tell you of her, Fitzwilliam? She spied for Smythe because her father owed him some kind of debt."

"No, you did not mention her," Fitzwilliam answered sourly.

"It was a rather surprising night," Darcy explained. "I suppose I simply forgot her."

"Poor girl," Smythe said, shaking his head. "Her father worked for me for a time, but he found himself too drawn to my tables for my peace of mind, and once he was unable to pay his own debts, I required him to find other employment."

"Hmm."

"And who are these other gentlemen?" Smythe asked, gesturing around the table.

"Charles Bingley," Bingley said, automatically beginning to extend his hand before remembering the man was not a friend.

"And these are two of my footmen, John Ralston and Matthew Corver," Darcy replied reluctantly. "We are here to rescue Miss Bennet, or at least attempt to find her."

"She is here somewhere? In Buckinghamshire?"

"She was taken to your home," Darcy answered, "or so we were led to believe. We know the location is near Amersham, but no specifics."

"My home! Tildy." Smythe's eyes bulged. He stood instantly and began to stride away.

"Stop!" Fitzwilliam cried, jumping in the man's path. "If what you claim is true, if you are innocent of this second abduction, the least you can do is tell us where your home lies."

"Follow me if you wish to know," he said sharply, half-shoving Fitzwilliam out of his way.

The five companions sped after him, exchanging uncertain looks, and less than thirty minutes later, they found themselves leaving the road approximately two miles outside of Amersham and following Smythe's mount into a heavily wooded copse. It was full dark by then, and Fitzwilliam worried about some kind of ambush, but before he could truly consider warning the others and returning to the road, they had come out on the back side of a large manor house.

It was difficult to see too much detail, given the clouds covering the moon, but he got the impression that the structure was large and quite old. Smythe dismounted at the edge of the trees and tethered his reins to an obliging tree branch. The others followed his example and walked forward quietly, all keeping their eyes open for signs of trouble.

Smythe ducked into the stable at the back of the house. After a quick discussion, Darcy and Fitzwilliam followed him inside, leaving Bingley, John, and Matthew outside in case it was some sort of trick. They entered to find Smythe examining the horses in the stalls by the light of a dimmed lantern.

"Reg is here," he said grimly, motioning toward a chestnut mare on the end. He moved down the aisle, pointing toward the others. "Pritchard, Cooperton, Windham, Lake, Wellington, Keeley, Fox, and Stoneman." He paused before the horse in the large stall at the back. "And Tilda. My wife."

Darcy and Fitzwilliam exchanged a significant glance but did not speak.

"If Miss Bennet is here, Reg will have posted guards on the front and back doors and probably a watch at the front gate. I doubt he remembers the side door, however, since it was rarely used, even when we were boys."

"So there are nine of your crew here? Any servants?" Fitzwilliam asked as Smythe blew out the lantern and replaced it on the wall. They returned outside, rejoining the others.

"None with whom we must be concerned. Mr. and Mrs. Jones are the only staff I maintain here, and they are quite docile and loyal to me."

"But your men are not?"

Smythe turned away to face the house. "I would have said they were. Were the circumstances any other than what they appear to be, I would simply walk into the house, insist they release Miss Bennet, then chastise them all severely. However, there seems to have been much occurring in England that I have missed, and it would probably be wiser to assume I am unwelcome."

"Had you no indication of their defection?"

Smythe sighed. "I will admit that I have paid little heed to such things of late. I have been far more concerned with my own affairs than with my business. Obviously, that was a miscalculation."

Fitzwilliam turned so he was addressing all five of the men. "Very well. Assuming Miss Bennet is here, what is our next move? Darcy," he said, holding up a hand to forestall his cousin's interruption, "is clearly anxious to take some action, but it might be wise to take a more cautious approach. Smythe says there are likely nine enemies inside, two each guarding the front and back entrances and a single watch on the front gate, but there is a little-known side entrance that may be a useful point of entry should we decide to storm the castle, as it were. What are your opinions?"

After glancing around to make sure no one else would speak, Bingley raised a hand. "Although I am concerned for Miss Bennet's well-being, I believe it would be wiser to watch the house for a time and hope some of the men leave during the day tomorrow. We could be more certain of a successful ambush if the numbers were more even."

"I say now, sir, beggin' your pardon," Matthew said, cracking the knuckles on both hands menacingly. "A night of keepin' watch outside will leave us tired and weak."

"Perhaps we could send one man inside to examine the situation right now," John offered uncertainly, glancing at Darcy for approval. "I could go. If I were caught, I could claim to only be a common thief."

"That is not a bad idea," Smythe mused, "although I cannot promise the men will be kind to a thief if you are caught."

"I am tougher than I look, sir," John argued.

"Are you certain, John?" Darcy asked, concerned. "Your mother will never forgive me if you are injured in an escapade like this."

"Mother may serve you porridge for your morning meal for a few weeks," John chuckled ruefully, "but she would have my head if I had not done everything I could to help you, sir."

"Very well." Darcy clapped John on the shoulder. "Remember, you are attempting to discover the number and whereabouts of any and all of the kidnappers, as well as Miss Bennet's location and state of wellbeing. Look out for possible alternate exits."

"Hide any weaponry you find lying around," Smythe added with a smirk. "My men have a terrible habit of removing their sword belts when they think their captives are harmless. Also, be certain not to harm my wife or the Joneses, the older couple in my employ."

"What does your wife look like, sir?" John asked. "And Miss Bennet."

"My wife is quite young, delicate, and red-haired. Miss Bennet is dark-haired." Smythe shot a mischievous look at Darcy. "And she has dazzling, intelligent dark eyes."

"Smythe," Darcy said warningly, "tonight is not the night to test my patience."

Smythe laughed quietly. "Now, John, let me describe to you the layout of my home."

He took John aside, describing various stairs and possible locations for holding prisoners.

"Obviously," Bingley said in a low voice, "this man is the kidnapper you described to me this morning, Darcy. Are we really trusting him with all this? Why is he helping us?"

"The man may be a scoundrel," Darcy replied thoughtfully, "but he has always seemed to have a certain sense of honor. If this is his home, he was at least brought up as a gentleman, whatever he has fallen to since. I believe his surprise at Elizabeth's abduction was sincere, and he sees it as his duty to rectify the situation, being as it began with him initially."

"My instincts lead me to agree with you," Fitzwilliam said slowly. "But we should not assume that once we are facing his men, particularly Reg, he will not change sides."

"Agreed," Darcy nodded.

John and Smythe returned to the group, and after a few more offers of advice and god-speeds, the men made their way back to the edge of the trees as John slinked his way toward the side door with instructions from Smythe regarding how to toggle the knob so the lock would open.

Too anxious for speech, they each found a place to settle and watch. All they could do now was wait.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: You were all so mad about the last chapter's cliffy that I'm going to let you get right to it._

 _Disclaimer: I am not Jane Austen, and I can't help but wonder how her stories would have ended up if she'd written them online today a chapter at a time. Can you imagine the backlash from commenters just after Darcy's proposal? So much profanity. Or after finding out Edward Ferrars was engaged to Lucy Steele? It would take guts to maintain her plotlines, that's for sure._

 _Chapter Twelve_

Lizzy awakened with a start. The room was absolutely dark, despite the curtains having never been drawn, and unpleasantly chilly. It was not, perhaps, as frigid as the second night on the road with Smythe's men the first time, but it was cold enough that the thin counterpane was insufficient.

Lizzy stood and fumbled her way through the pitch-black room, knocking into several stray pieces of furniture, until she found the wardrobe. It seemed empty, but she did finally locate a blanket lying in a heap on the bottom. It smelled musty, but the odor was not off-putting enough to keep her from taking advantage of it. She pulled it around her like a cape, ignoring thoughts of any other residents of the wardrobe that may be still clinging to it.

Of course, she seemed to have been asleep just long enough that returning to slumber would be impossible, so rather than lying on the bed, she wrapped as tightly as she could in the dual blankets and settled on the window seat, letting her eyes rest on the shadowed landscape only barely visible through the glass. In spite of the circumstances, she had noticed during the ride that the surrounding countryside had a certain charm, although it was less comforting than that of her own beloved Hertfordshire.

Her mind drifted tiredly to wondering about Pemberley, Mr. Darcy's home of which he spoke with so much warmth. Miss Bingley had raved about it, and at the time Lizzy had decided that if Miss Bingley adored it, Lizzy herself would probably despise it. However, his description of Pemberley's wildness had intrigued her, and during their evening conversation at the Tanners' fireside the previous night, Lizzy had coaxed Mr. Darcy into waxing eloquent about his youth. She had found herself enchanted by his descriptions of his childhood adventures in Pemberley's many woods and streams.

She wondered whether perhaps Mr. Darcy himself would share those places with her. She found herself thinking of his expression that morning (which now felt like years ago) when she had hinted so strongly regarding the cause of her concern for him and he had gazed at her with such warmth. A shiver entirely unrelated to the cold ran through her as she imagined walking alone with him through the trees, him tucking a wildflower into her hair then taking her in his arms and…

She straightened at the sound of the lock clicking on her door, then flattened her legs and stilled, hoping she blended into the window seat. A surreptitious entry into her chamber in the dead of night implied far more danger than she had yet experienced in any of these adventures, and her heart started racing. Why had she not thought to break a leg off a chair or pull a sconce from the wall in case she needed some sort of weapon?

At least, since her attacker would expect her to be in the bed, she might have time to scream or run from the room. She drew in a deep breath.

A small form slipped inside and gently closed the door before stopping at the side table and lighting a candle.

"Tilda?" Lizzy whispered from her seat, her posture relaxing.

"Oh! You are awake. I am so glad." Mrs. Talmadge looked deeply relieved as she moved toward the window. "I did not wish to wake you, but I hoped you might be finding sleep difficult, given your situation. Not that I wish for your misery, but I was so hoping I might speak to you."

Lizzy lowered her feet and patted the seat next to her, although she watched the woman warily. "You are not planning to aid my escape are you? I should be terribly grateful, but I fear Reg would not be happy with you."

Mrs. Talmadge sighed heavily, setting the candle between them and wringing her hands. "I would like to help you, but as you are in debt to Geoff, I do not think…"

"I am not one of his debtors!" Lizzy hissed, offended. "I am a most innocent victim!"

Mrs. Talmadge raised her eyebrows. "Then someone who cares for you is. Geoff is always most careful to be fair."

"Perhaps that is normally the case, but not so with me!"

Lizzy shared with the girl a shortened version of her and Mr. Darcy's abduction.

"But that makes no sense!" Mrs. Talmadge cried at the end. "Why would Geoff have taken you, when you are so wholly unconnected to the family at Rosings Park? It makes sense, I suppose, for him to have taken Mr. Darcy, but why you as well?"

"He implied that my presence would ensure Mr. Darcy's compliance, but the more I have thought about that excuse, not to mention the extra trouble I brought on the journey, the less convinced I am of his good sense."

"Geoff always has a reason for the things he does," Mrs. Talmadge defended, her face softening. "He thinks everything through—at least when it comes to his business. If only he put as much energy into maintaining his personal life, our circumstances would be much different now."

She looked so sad suddenly, so bereft and undone, that Lizzy could not quiet her next question. "Is that how this happened?" She motioned uncomfortably toward Mrs. Talmadge's middle. "Was Mr. Talmadge neglectful?"

Mrs. Talmadge leaned her head back against the icy glass and closed her eyes. "I cannot imagine what you must think of me after what you heard earlier."

"I will admit to being… surprised, especially after you had just expressed such an abiding affection for your husband."

"I love Geoff deeply. I always have, ever since the first moment he stepped into the tavern in Amersham. My father is the proprietor, and I was waiting tables and serving drinks the night Geoff and Reg returned from school. I was so young, only fourteen, but he was the handsomest young man I had ever seen, and he was so polite to me, even when the other men—still boys, really—with him ignored me or made lude remarks. My father's business was prospering, and he sent me away to school when I was fifteen, hoping to improve our family's circumstances.

"I was nearly seventeen the next time I saw Geoff, when I was home on holiday and helping out in the tavern while some of the staff were sick with a winter fever. He had just returned home from what I did not realize was one of his debt collections. He remembered me, although this time his eyes lingered on me as I served the other customers in a way they had not done before.

"He returned the next night, and the next. We talked of small things at first, but eventually of larger things, my longing for a quiet life away from the tavern taproom or a butcher shop or a milliner, his bitterness against his father for allowing their estate to sink into such ruin that he had no hope of redeeming it. He had no desire at all to reestablish himself as a gentleman—he had grown too disgusted with the entire existence of the English gentry to fight for a place among them. He only wanted to be free of it all, just like me.

"I had truly begun to care for him, but I learned accidentally about his business, about the gambling tables in back rooms, about the loans and debts and his methods of extracting payment. I questioned his ethics, and I saw how easy it would be for his methods to land him in trouble, so I rebuffed his further attentions and intended to forget him."

She sighed again loudly. "My father had never approved of him, too well aware of his family's reduced circumstances and the shadows around Geoff's business dealings. He warned me away from him, adding that gentlemen, no matter how impoverished, had no honorable intentions toward tavern maids. I returned to school in Surrey nursing disappointment. You can imagine my surprise when Geoff came to call on me at the school. He was so persistent, so tender and thoughtful, that he wore down my objections. We ran away together, were married up north, and once we had returned to Amersham, my father was reluctantly forced to accept our marriage. Geoff promised that if he could only work his tables for another year or two, we would abandon this crumbling estate and establish ourselves somewhere on the continent where we could live out our lives in quiet and peace.

"For a year, I was content. He was away often, and it was lonely here with only Mr. and Mrs. Jones, but there was much to do, tasks I did not mind, and our time together when he was home was so precious that it sustained me when he was gone. But then Geoff decided to open three more tables up north, far north, and it took time to hire trustworthy agents, dredge up customers, and demonstrate presence enough to convince them all of his oversight. He was away for months, and although he always promised he would be home soon, each letter was soon followed by a message saying that something had occurred and he must stay to resolve it. In the midst of all that, Reg arrived."

She huddled up now, drawing her knees as close to her body as her rounded middle would allow. "Reg and Geoff are the oldest of friends, and I had met Reg several times. I liked him well enough, although he was so quiet and stern compared to Geoff's easy ways. Sometimes I felt his eyes on me, and I had worked in a tavern long enough to recognize desire in a man's gaze, but I ignored it, hoping my lack of interest would blunt his appetite. But Reg came through this area several times while Geoff was gone, leading groups on their collection rounds and observing at various tables. They always stayed here, since their presence in a large group in the surrounding towns would draw too much notice, and I was happy enough to host them.

"At first Reg was nothing but friendly, and it was so nice to have someone with whom to speak besides the Joneses. We would talk late into the night sometimes, but I believed it was all innocent. Then one night, Reg came to stay here on his own. It had been weeks since I had heard from Geoff at all, and I was angry and lonely and hurt. We had too much wine, and one thing led to another."

Her voice had remained steady through the telling, but when Lizzy glanced up at her face in the candlelight, there were tears streaking down her cheeks. "I was horrified the next morning, but Reg was so happy, and it was nice to be held again, to feel loved. He stayed with me for several nights, and it was not until he had to leave and I was left on my own again that I truly realized what I had done, what I had become. He came through for a single night a fortnight later, and we argued about my wish for us to end our affair, so he did not return for some weeks, long enough for me to receive a letter from Geoff saying that he had been taken quite ill and had only just returned to himself. He said he would be home as soon as he was well enough to travel.

"Almost the next day, I felt the quickening and knew for certain that I was with child. That was nearly three months ago. Geoff returned home, and I pretended all was well, I pretended to be joyful when he told me that it was time to leave this life and make a new one elsewhere, but all the time I have carried this awful secret, knowing that as soon as I began to show, it would be obvious that I had been unfaithful to him. Reg came to see me again just after Geoff sailed from Dover. I never should have told him about the child, but I had no one else. He has spent the past fortnight trying to convince me to come away with him, that he loves me and that we could be happy."

When she did not continue, Lizzy gently prodded, "And you are considering his offer?"

"Reg does care for me, and I believe he would be a most attentive partner. His eyes sparkle when he speaks of caring for our child. But I would not be his wife. I would never be his wife. And how could I ever be happy knowing I had been so faithless?"

"Could you love him, do you think?"

"Perhaps in time." She thought for a moment, then shook her head, more tears spilling over. "But there would always be Geoff at the center of my heart. My memories might fade, but my shame never would, and nor would my love for him."

"Then why not refuse Reg's offer? Stay here."

"But how can I face Geoff and admit what I have done? How could he ever forgive me or love me again? Would he ever be able to love a child that was not his own? What if I spurned Reg and then Geoff abandoned me in his justified anger? I would be all alone!"

Lizzy reached her hand out and grasped Mrs. Talmadge's. "I will admit that I have little experience with love. My own affections are so new to me, still so fresh and uncertain, that I feel unqualified to advise you." Her mind raced, words coming to her lips as the thoughts coalesced in her mind, appearing suddenly clear through the confusion and fear of the past several days. "The only thing I do know is this: love can surprise us. It can spring up in the most unexpected places, and its strength is not always dictated by the quality of the soil from which is grows or the length of its life. Love can survive both drought and storm, both neglect and abuse, if it is revived afterward with gentle care, feeding, and patience. If you love him truly, and if he loves you truly in return, I believe… well, I believe it would be possible to salvage that love despite all that has occurred."

Lizzy's heart raced as she finished speaking, Mr. Darcy's face appearing as clearly before her as if he stood in that dark chamber. How she loved him! And how joyful she felt to be certain of the name for this warmth permeating every inch of her!

"You think I should deny Reg and wait here for Geoff's return? How could I bear to tell him the truth? I am so horribly ashamed!"

Lizzy brought herself back to reality, banishing Mr. Darcy's image, if not the feelings insider her. "I suppose you must simply love him enough to bear the shame, to face his reproach. It will not be easy, but I believe all of that would be better than spending your life pretending love and marriage with another man, no matter how he cares for you."

"But I shall break Reg's heart!"

Lizzy dropped Mrs. Talmadge's hand and stood, putting her fists on her hips. "Tilda, you cannot have it both ways! You have put yourself in a situation where you are responsible for two men's hearts! You cannot escape it or hide from it. You must break one heart or you shall be forced to break three!"

"Oh, I cannot do this! I cannot make this choice!" Mrs. Talmadge covered her face with her hands. She broke down again into sobs, and after a few moments, Lizzy's annoyance abandoned her. How could she say what she would do under similar circumstances? She settled back on the window seat and rubbed Mrs. Talmadge's back sympathetically.

It was not long, however, before the tears slowed and Mrs. Talmadge looked up, a new expression on her countenance. "I must leave."

"Yes, you ought to attempt to rest, for your sake and your child's."

"No, I mean I must leave. Go. This moment." She leaped to her feet. "Reg believes I have gone to bed. He will not notice I am not here until late morning when I do not emerge from my room. I will have time to get some distance from here, even on foot, and…"

"Leave now? On foot? Are you mad?"

"Perhaps," she said, sounding breathless. "But I do not care. I shall be free to think for a few days."

"Where shall you go?"

"I shall walk into town—'tis only a few miles, and obviously I am in no condition to ride on horseback. My sister married a solicitor, and they keep a small phaeton. My brother-in-law will allow me to take it for a few days. I shall go to visit a cousin of mine who lives in a cottage near High Wycombe. Reg would never know to look for me there."

"And you will return in time to go north with Reg if you so choose?"

"Perhaps I will not return at all," she said bleakly.

"Mrs. Talmadge… Tilda, I do not think this is wise. What if you were to be injured on the road?"

"You could come with me! Then I would not be alone."

Lizzy felt hope rise in her. "I could at least accompany you to Amersham, and there I could… well, I could…" Her optimism died quickly. "I could do nothing. Even if your family would help me send a message to someone, so much of our activity the past few days has been attempting to avoid attracting attention to my situation. Appearing mysteriously in a tavern in Amersham would be difficult to explain to anyone. And besides, my disappearance will be noticed much more quickly than yours. It is so late that we might not even reach Amersham before I was missed."

"I suppose you are right, but I am determined to leave regardless. I shall… I shall simply tell them that I cannot sleep and am going to visit my horse in the stable. Keeley and Stoneman are guarding the back door, and they have no reason to keep me from going on a walk, even if it is late. Or early, rather."

Lizzy felt ill at the thought of this young woman traipsing through the world in the dark, but she was helpless to prevent her. "Please be careful, Tilda. I know you are afraid, but do not allow your fear to endanger you. I beg you to rethink this plan."

"No, I must leave before I lose my nerve and end up making a choice I will regret for the rest of my life!" She reached out and hugged Lizzy tightly. "I know you have no reason to have been so kind to me, to have listened so willingly, and I thank you for it from the bottom of my heart. I hope that when you have been returned to your gentleman and your life is peaceful once again, you will think kindly of me."

"Tilda, you are too hasty. Please, you must wait and…"

Mrs. Talmadge bustled out the door with a backwards wave and closed it silently, leaving Lizzy sitting alone with the flickering candle. Lizzy eyed the door, quite aware that Mrs. Talmadge had not locked it behind her.

But even if Lizzy could leave her room, where would she go? If she were in real physical danger, it would be worth any risk to escape it, to climb out a more accessible window on a lower floor or find somewhere to hide until she could dart through an unguarded door, but as it was, flying off into the blackness of the night would put her in more danger rather than less. Truly, any choice besides simply remaining here put her reputation at great risk, and if she had any hope of Mr. Darcy renewing his addresses to her, she needed to maintain all the gentlewoman's status she could claim, however dubious.

She leaned back in the window seat and stretched her legs out before her, resting the candleholder in her lap and watching the flame reflected in the glass. She had to remain here doing absolutely nothing but worrying, originally about what Mr. Darcy was suffering in her absence and now about Mrs. Talmadge's well-being. It was, in its own way, a rather dreadful form of torture.

* * *

"Darcy, come quickly!" hissed a voice from the darkness to Fitzwilliam's right. He spun and just managed to make out Bingley's shape before Darcy stood from where he had been leaning against a tree limb broodingly.

"What is it, Bingley?"

"I have found her—I have found Miss Bennet!"

Bingley sprang away with Darcy close on his heels. Fitzwilliam followed them after instructing Matthew to remain in the trees with Smythe.

Bingley had grown restless some time ago, too anxious to remain still, and he had volunteered to make a circuit of the house in case anything untoward was occurring on the far side. Perhaps they should have surrounded the house in a scouting formation, especially in case John had been caught inside and needed their help, but Fitzwilliam had been concerned that they would find it difficult to locate one another in the dark, and he had wanted them all present to keep a close eye on Smythe.

They crept around the back of the yard, keeping low against the stone fence, until finally pausing just around the western corner. "Look," Bingley whispered, gesturing to the house. "Up there."

It was not difficult to see what he had seen. The entire house had been dark upon their arrival with the exception of a few rooms on the first floor lit behind curtains. Now all but one of those lights had gone out, but there was a window on the second story lit vividly by a single candle. Seated in a window seat was Miss Bennet. She was too far for them to read her expression—she might even have fallen asleep there.

"Elizabeth," Darcy breathed.

"She looks well enough, Darcy," Bingley said, sounding almost cheerful. "'Tis an excellent sign."

Fitzwilliam wanted to ask what a woman would look like from that distance who was not well enough, but Darcy only responded with a grim nod, and Fitzwilliam decided not to add to his concerns.

"When I first saw her up there, she was seated side-by-side with another young lady I assume was Mrs. Talmadge. The woman appeared to be distressed, for Miss Bennet was rubbing her back soothingly. Then they both rose, and after a few minutes, Miss Bennet returned."

"Leave it to Elizabeth to make a friend at such a time in such a place," Darcy murmured. The affection in his voice when he spoke about her still sometimes took Fitzwilliam by surprise. It was unlike him to be so open about anything, especially something so personal.

The three of them stood there for a moment, and although he could not speak for them, Fitzwilliam knew he was feeling a very strange mixture of hopefulness and helplessness. She was right there within their grasp yet so unreachable at the same time. And she seemed so alone up there, so vulnerable, so much like the tiny candle flame beside her.

As they watched, she bent over all of a sudden and blew out the flame, leaving the room in total darkness. He hoped it was not an omen of things to come.

They watched for a few more minutes, but when nothing else noticeable occurred, Fitzwilliam suggested they return to the far side of the house. Bingley led the way, followed by Fitzwilliam, but it took several more seconds before Darcy could turn away from the window and join them.

There were low voices speaking urgently when they reached their copse of trees.

"Yes, sir. I counted four guards, two at each entrance. Two of the men are sleeping in each of the rooms at the top of the double staircase. The two servants were nowhere to be seen, but the door was locked to the room you said was theirs."

Fitzwilliam and the others drew close enough to see John speaking with Matthew and Smythe, and they hurried to join them without interrupting.

"The door to the mistress's chambers was open, and it seemed to be unoccupied, but there were two feminine voices speaking quietly inside a room on the upper floor, two doors away from where two of the guards were sleeping. There was a key in the lock."

"Bingley saw them," Darcy added when he noticed Smythe's surprise at the location of his wife. "They were talking together in front of the window. He said that Mrs. Smythe seemed distressed and Elizabeth was comforting her. That must have been some minutes ago, however, for I only saw Elizabeth there alone."

"Yes, sir," John confirmed. "It took some time to leave, for one of the guards began wandering the entry looking restless. I had to wait for him to settle again before I could make my way down the servant's stairs."

Fitzwilliam clapped John on the shoulder. "Young man, if you ever decide a life of service is not for you, enlist and come to me. The army has need of good spies."

John glanced at Darcy, who had raised an eyebrow at Fitzwilliam, before nodding and bowing. "Thank you, sir."

"We must get in there," Smythe said, appearing truly impatient for the first time. "I need to reach Tildy. If something is wrong, I must go to her."

"We need a plan," Fitzwilliam argued. "We know where the men are now, and we can…"

"We have a plan," Smythe disagreed, his entire body straining toward the house. "Method: enter through the side door and subdue any man who attempts to prevent us. Goal: extract the two young ladies without any harm coming to them. 'Tis quite simple."

"Sir, I know you are eager, but we ought to discuss whether there might be a means of preventing some confrontations. If some of the men are sleeping, we could find a way to shut them into those rooms. We should enter quietly and split into two groups, hoping to incapacitate the guards at the entrances without them alerting the others to our presence. And if possible, we should…"

"Yes, those are excellent suggestions, Fitzwilliam," Darcy said, loosening his sword in its scabbard and checking the pistol Fitzwilliam had brought from Darcy House before placing it in his coat. "Now, let us go."

"Darcy!" Fitzwilliam objected. "That was not a plan. Those were ideas… Those bloody fools." He watched as Smythe, followed closely by Darcy, darted across the open yard and approached the side entrance. He turned toward Bingley and the others. "Love makes fools of all of us, I suppose."

"Indeed," Bingley agreed bleakly. "Come along, then. We cannot allow them to go alone."

The four of them ran across the yard with light footfalls, and as Fitzwilliam made his way inside through the rickety side door, he sent up a soldier's prayer. _Dear God, protect us in this righteous endeavor. Aid us in our efforts to protect the innocent. May we not take life unnecessarily or lose it prematurely, according to thy will. Amen._


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I'm pretty sure I did not write Pride and Prejudice. At least, not in this lifetime.

Chapter Thirteen

Lizzy had just begun to doze on the window seat, her head pillowed on a dusty cushion, when a strange sound brought her sharply awake. She pushed up, her eyes focusing on the closed door. It was hard to tell for certain, but she thought perhaps it had been a cry.

It did not take long for the sound to repeat. "Reg!" A man called from somewhere on the main floor. "Reg! Attack!"

There were other sounds then, too. Rushing booted feet. Shouting. Doors slamming. Something shattering. And then, sickeningly, the harsh clanging of metal on metal.

Swords.

Lizzy jumped to her feet. She knew not whether to hope this was her rescue. Certainly she desired to be away, but she did not wish for anyone to be harmed in the effort. And if, as her heart told her to hope, this was Mr. Darcy coming to her aid, the thought of anyone being injured in the attempt was even more painfully distasteful.

But what if this were not on her behalf at all? What if this was a rival group of men similar to Smythe's, or even a band of robbers pillaging a house they had imagined would contain little resistance?

She very deliberately sat back on the window seat. She wanted to rush into the corridor, to see what was occurring and perhaps offer some aid—even to call for an end to the fighting—but she considered what Mr. Darcy's good sense would tell her. She was neither skilled with a weapon nor exceptionally agile or strong. Therefore, she ought to remain well out of the altercation until after it had settled, as much as it was difficult to be patient.

Unfortunately, her patience lasted less than two minutes. A particularly loud crash somewhere on the main floor, following by the appalling sound of a pistol shot, drew her back to her feet, and before she could talk herself out of it, she ran across the room and threw open the door. The noise seemed to all be coming from below now, perhaps near the bottom of the stairs at the end of the passage, and the corridor was empty. She drew in a deep breath and moved slowly through the doorway. She would go only to the top of the stairs.

She crept along the wall of the corridor silently, all her senses directed toward the noise from below. Every now and then, she picked out a voice that she might recognize—perhaps Mr. Darcy yelling directions, or the colonel laughing mockingly, or… Mr. Bingley? No, that could not be. Her mind must be playing tricks.

She reached the upper landing. She clung tightly to the balustrade and leaned out, intending to swing just enough to see over into the main entrance.

A hand clamped on her wrist, and another covered her mouth and pulled her up against a hard chest. She attempted to cry out and thrash, but she could make little sound. No, no, no, she thought as she wriggled and squirmed and tried to bite the hand, this would not happen again!

"My dear Miss Bennet," whispered a familiar voice, "I know you have little reason to believe this, but I mean you no harm."

Lord Smythe—Mr. Talmadge—was gripping her hard, but she managed to unlock an elbow enough to jab it into his middle. His breath rushed out in a puff, but his grip did not loosen. He began dragging her toward the nearest open door.

"I seem to remember you being more docile last time I held you," Mr. Talmadge chuckled breathlessly. She grabbed the door jamb, her fingers clawing for purchase, but he knocked her arm aside and pushed her into the room, releasing her before silently closing the door.

She backed away from him, moving several steps in the utter darkness before bumping into a bedstead. The thin post of the bedframe creaked loudly as she pressed back against it, almost as if it would snap with the pressure. If only it were not so black, she might spy something to use as a weapon, but the effort was pointless. "Stay away from me."

"As lovely as you are, Miss Bennet, and as much as I may have intentionally misled you upon our first meeting, I am, in fact, quite loyal to my lovely wife, whom I believe you have met since arriving here. I have no ill intentions."

"Then why have you shut me into a dark room with you?"

He chuckled again. "Because I have no desire for Reg and the others to know I am here. Your beloved Mr. Darcy and his friends are downstairs even now, attempting to subdue them, but I have little interest in fighting my own men. I brought Darcy here, I gave them my best advice on how to overcome the opposition, and now I only wish to retrieve my wife and depart. You were seen conversing in front of your chamber window, so I know you have been speaking with her recently, but she was not in her room or in any other I have searched. Do you know where she is?"

Suddenly, all of Lizzy's anger dissipated and she was left feeling quite overwhelmed. She had no desire to help this particular man, but Mrs. Talmadge did love him so very much, and if he really had been attempting to aid her, what else could she do?

"Miss Bennet, where is she? She is still here, I assume."

"Actually, sir, she is not."

He stepped toward her, she could tell from his footsteps, and although she could not see his expression, it was obvious from his tone that all of his ease had deserted him. "What do you mean? Was that not her he saw?"

"It was her, but she has gone, or at least, I assume she has left, if she was not in her chamber."

"But where would she go at this time of night? And why? Is she angry that Reg brought the men here? Had I known he had such intentions I would never have left her here while I prepared us a temporary place on the Continent."

"No, I… that is, she…" Lizzy was full of misery, wishing there were time to break the truth softly to him. She could simply send him after his wife, but she knew that it would be better for him to be prepared. She steeled herself, straightening her back and bracing herself against his response. "She was running from Reg and, in a way, from you."

"What?" he cried, grabbing her by the arms so suddenly that she gasped. How had he approached so quickly? "Did he hurt her? What do you mean 'from me'?"

Lizzy thought carefully, trying to put the entire story together in only a few sentences. "Tilda loves you very much, Mr. Talmadge, but there was a time some months ago when you were gone for several months, many of them without contacting her, was there not?"

"I was busy, and then I grew ill. I thought she understood."

"She did—afterward. But she felt lonely and abandoned, and Reg… Reg was here. She did not say it, but I believe he has had feelings for her for some time, and he took advantage of your absence to win her favor. She… they… well, I am sure you know what happened. She feels terrible. She does not love him and ended the affair quickly, but she is with child now by him, and she cannot bear to face you. She loves you so much, even more now, I think, than before, since she fears losing you."

He was so near her, his fingers still hard on her arms, that she could just make out the horror and shock on his face despite the darkness. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

"I am sorry—I would rather not have told you, but for her sake, you must understand. Reg came here only partly to hide me. Mostly, he was attempting to convince your wife to abscond with him to the north, where he was planning to continue your business. He promises they will live as man and wife, that he will claim the child with pride, and she is so ashamed, so afraid to face you, that she is considering it."

It took several more seconds before Mr. Talmadge was able to speak, and even then, his words were breathless and quiet. "She is with child… by Reg. He… he is my best friend."

Lizzy could not speak. Even attempting to empathize with the man's pain was tightening her throat. Her heart ached for him, for his wife, and even, grudgingly, for Reg.

He shook his head after a moment, obviously attempting to gather his thoughts once again. A shout of pain downstairs drew both their attentions, and he finally seemed to partially return to himself. "Why did she leave in the middle of the night? Where did she go?"

"She was confused. She wanted space away from Reg, away from your home, to make her decision. I tried to stop her, but she wanted to leave when he would not notice her absence for several hours."

He nodded once. "And where? Where did she go?"

Lizzy hesitated. "Why? Will you go after her?"

He dropped her arms. "Of course I shall! Tell me where she has gone."

"But why will you follow her?"

"Because she is my wife!"

"Will you follow her to accuse her, to demand an explanation and rail at her for her faithlessness? Or will you follow her to beg her forgiveness for being an absent, neglectful husband?"

He stared at her. "I… Well, I had not… that is, have I not some right to my anger? Do you expect me to crawl on my hands and knees to her when I have never been disloyal?"

"No, but I can guarantee you that if you meet her with anger, you will destroy her already-fragile heart. She does not expect instant forgiveness—it will take time for trust to develop between you again—but if you approach her with rage, she will return to Reg, who will welcome her with open arms. If you intend to attack her, then it would be better to leave her alone entirely and disappear onto the Continent. Then at least she will remember you with tenderness and regret."

He turned away from her then and paced several times back and forth. Lizzy wished the dim moonlight coming through the uncovered window was strong enough to show his face as he moved. He did not stop until there was another crash downstairs and an exchange of indistinct, angry words, followed by running footsteps through this corridor.

Finally, he looked up at her again. "I love her. She has betrayed me—I feel as though my heart has been ripped from my chest—and yet, the thought of never seeing her again makes me wish my heart would stop beating altogether. I cannot… I have no wish to live without her."

"Can you raise the child as your own?"

He sounded winded, as if she had elbowed him in the middle again, as he replied, "I do not know. I… I would try. That is all I can promise."

His honesty reassured Lizzy. "That is all I ask. She left on foot on the road to her family's tavern in Amersham."

"On foot?" he barked, straightening in indignation. "Whatever for?"

"She is heavy with child, sir. She cannot ride safely."

"Of course." He rubbed his face miserably. "Of course. I shall follow her then and hope to catch her before she reaches her family."

He spun before she could respond and moved toward the door, opening it incautiously and rushing through it. Lizzy followed him, whispering, "Sir! Be careful!"

But the warning came too late. Lizzy had just leaned out of the doorway when the door to the chamber down the hall where she had been kept was flung open and Reg ran out carrying a lantern, his sword in hand and his face thunderous. He and Mr. Talmadge froze at the sight of one another, both surprised, but as Reg's expression transitioned to guilt and dismay, Mr. Talmadge's contorted in fury.

"Geoff!" Reg said, trying to hide his concern. "What are you doing here? I thought you in France. It is good that you are here, however—we could use a touch of help with some troublemakers who are attempting to leave with our ransom guarantee."

"You!" Mr. Talmadge growled, drawing his weapon. "You take over my business, you abduct an innocent for a ransom like a common thief, you invade my home, and you _take advantage of my wife_ , yet you have the nerve to call on me for help as if I am your friend!"

"Geoff, I… how did you…?" Reg's eyes searched the hall, and when they landed on Lizzy, his discomfort changed instantly to wrath. "You should have stayed out of this, Miss Bennet."

Part of Lizzy wanted to shrink back into the dark room and lock the door, hoping that the next time she emerged, all of this would be over, but another part was enraged that anyone felt they had a right to threaten her. She compromised with herself, neither moving closer nor backing away, and attempting to appear unruffled.

"Did you think I would not find out on my own?" Mr. Talmadge yelled, fully outraged. "Or did you just hope to be out of my reach when I did? Did you hope that by stealing my wife you would also steal my will to fight?"

"She deserves better than you!" Reg yelled back. "You had not been married for a week before you left her here, in this tumble-down, cavernous, old tomb, alone but for the company of two silent, aging strangers. You left her for weeks at a time, even months, with little more than a few lines now and then. Why she loves you so fiercely, I cannot imagine!"

"And I suppose my operation deserves better than I gave it as well?" Mr. Talmadge asked, a vein nearly popping on his forehead.

"It could have been so much more," Reg answer defiantly. "You and your ridiculous sense of honor—your unreasonable standards for the men, your unwillingness to cross any of the imaginary lines in your head between wrong and nearly-wrong. You could have made us all rich, but instead it took nearly a decade to accrue enough to achieve even a comfortable income. I am neither so timid nor so hindered by your inexplicable ethics. Mr. Darcy will be only the first of many prodigiously wealthy members of the Ton to support our bid for true comfort and security."

"You have always been greedy," Mr. Talmadge spat, disgusted.

"You are no better! We began this in the first place with the idea of using the wealthy to secure ourselves."

"But we preyed on their weaknesses only to a limited degree. They created their own ruin—we only took advantage of it. We never hurt the innocent or got on the wrong side of the law."

"You see! Your strangely arbitrary principles! You follow this imaginary set of rules in order to assuage your conscience. I, however, have no such weakness, and I will do what I must to secure my own happiness."

"Including steal your best friend's wife!"

"'Tis my child she carries, Geoff," he replied tauntingly. "The law may call her yours, but I say the life growing inside her declares the issue far less certain."

"If she were yours, then you would know where she is right now, would you not?"

Reg's face went slack. "What do you mean where she is?"

"She has gone, Reg, run away from you."

"No," Reg breathed. "No, she is… she retired some hours ago."

"She is not in her chamber," Mr. Talmadge smirked, brandishing the sword he had seemed to forget in the heat of their argument. "I looked there first. She has gone, and as soon as I have finished with you, I will find her."

"No," Reg repeated, his color rising. He raised his weapon as well. "You cannot have her. She is mine now. I will have everything that is yours!"

"You will have nothing," Mr. Talmadge hissed.

In a movement too quick for Lizzy's tired eyes, he lunged forward with a stab directed straight toward Reg's heart. Reg barely had time to parry, the tip of Mr. Talmadge's blade nicking the shoulder of his coat.

Thus began one of the first true displays of swordsmanship Lizzy had ever seen. She knew that many gentlemen learned to fence at school, that there were clubs where they improved their skills and practiced against one another for sport, even placing wagers on the winners, but being as none of those places welcomed ladies, she had never seen even a fencing exercise, let alone an honestly-pitched battle.

As she watched the two gentlemen parry and riposte, lunge and feint, she thought once again of her youth, of those days playing pirate in the forest with John, Walter, and Martin. Their swords had only been narrow branches, but their battles had felt quite real to them. She had borne as many welts and scrapes as the boys afterwards, worn them like badges of honor implying her strength and courage.

Looking back now, however, they had understood nothing of the true ferocity of a match between two bitter enemies whose intent is to harm. Each thrust, each swing, each dodge was sharp and quick, the repetitive metallic ringing shrill and cold. The men growled at one another, too angry and breathless to fling insults and taunts the way she and the boys had always imagined. Their footwork was, to her eyes, sloppy and inconsistent, and their movements were efficient but rather graceless, their focus having moved away from skill and onto inflicting damage.

She found herself shivering in the doorway, only partially from the cold of the house. There was no pleasure in watching this, no admiration for their abilities. All she experienced was a dawning sense of horror, realizing that neither of these men intended to give quarter, that she might any moment be witness to a man's brutal killing. If Mr. Talmadge were to lose the battle, Reg would run him through without hesistation, would take his best friend's _life_ then begin a search for Mrs. Talmadge, possibly taking her north whether she wished it or not. If Reg were to lose, Lizzy was less certain regarding Mr. Talmadge's vindictiveness, but he may be equally vengeful.

Either way, the battle was likely to end with one of them lying slumped against a wall, blood pooling beneath him, his eyes staring ahead unseeing.

Lizzy shivered again. They were both too hurt, too angry, too foolish to control themselves, but she was not. She had no wish to observe a man's death, and if she wanted to be spared the sight, only she could do something about it. Her eyes cast around the corridor as her mind raced. What could she do?

After several moments, she had a thought, her memory of those tree-branch swords rising up again in her mind. She ducked back into the chamber behind her. It was completely ridiculous, but absurd or not, it was all she could do.

* * *

Fitzwilliam leaned back against the wall, attempting to rest for a moment even as he held his sword trained on the three young men in front of him. "I advise you men to remain quite still while we wait for my friend to retrieve some rope. I would prefer to avoid injuring any of you permanently, but I will have no qualms if you make it necessary."

One of the men nodded, another glared, and the third was too busy grumbling over the wound Fitzwilliam had just placed on his thigh to respond.

"Now," he went on, "would one of you be so good as to tell me which way lies the young lady you abducted?"

"She's on the second floor, sir," the first man replied, unbothered by a disgruntled jab from the second man. He was quite young, Fitzwilliam noticed. "In the… third chamber on the right, I think, up the right-hand staircase."

"Why would you tell 'im that, Wellington?" the second man growled. "'At chit is our ticket ta tha 'igh life."

"She is our ticket straight to hell, and you know it, Cooperton," the third man said through gritted teeth. "I told you we should never have gone against Smythe's orders. Getting mixed up in abducting and ransoming like this makes us no better than highwaymen."

"Reg is right," Cooperton muttered. "You're all a bunch a' cowards."

"No more talk," Fitzwilliam commanded as the door opened and Matthew entered carrying a length of thin rope he had retrieved from the stables. "My compatriot here is going to tie you up for everyone's safety. I would ask you not to make any trouble."

The men submitted quietly, even Cooperton. Just as Matthew was finishing, the door popped open, Bingley looking inside. "Ah, here you are, Fitzwilliam! Well done! I have incapacitated the watchman out front and locked him in the hall closet. Where did Darcy and John go?"

"They moved toward the rear entrance," Fitzwilliam said, pushing off the wall and joining Bingley and Matthew at the door. "I saw them fighting with the two guards."

"Two other men moved that way as well," Bingley said grimly, already striding away.

"One went up the stairs just a few moments ago," Matthew offered. "Saw him as I was returning from the stable."

"Miss Bennet is upstairs!," Fitzwilliam cried, spinning on his heel. "I shall go after that one. You two go help Darcy."

Bingley and Matthew ran between the staircases toward the back, Bingley's sword out and Matthew carrying some kind of club. Fitzwilliam could dimly hear the sounds of combat, which at least meant Darcy and John were still fighting. He grabbed the lit candelabra they had removed from a niche near the front door and dashed up the right-hand staircase, carefully stepping around the spots where longtime neglect had allowed the stair-boards to warp.

This must once have been a beautiful home—the lines of the staircases, the moldings, and the entrance were grand and graceful—but it had taken multiple generations to bring it to its current level of disrepair. Any furniture left visible in the corridors was dusty. There were no longer any paintings on the walls, although one could see marks on the peeling papers where they had once been hung. Even some of the moldings were missing, presumably because they had fallen down, and those that were left appeared ready to fall at any moment. What a dreadfully sad sort of old place this was.

He had not made it many steps up before he registered the clash of swords ahead of him. He slowed, holding the light high, and as the staircase curved, he caught sight of Smythe standing with his back to the stairway, his chest heaving and his sword raised high in the air. There was a small lantern sitting on a table in the upper hallway, and it illuminated Smythe's opponent, a tall, dark-haired man with a hard face and broad shoulders.

"You cannot best me, Reg," Smythe panted. "You never could."

"I never had a good reason before, Geoff," Reg replied. "It was always wisest to let you win, to let you think you were in control."

Smythe scoffed. "You let me win, did you?"

"Many times."

"Well, we shall see about that!"

Smythe approached Reg again, hacking and thrusting with some skill but little caution. Reg defended himself with precision, but his counterattacks lacked finesse, and Smythe parried them easily. It did not take many moments of observing for Fitzwilliam to see that the men were relatively evenly matched, that this would be a contest of stamina. Either that, or the win would be an accident, the result of one tripping on a raised corner of a rug or losing his focus because of a loud noise.

He was surprised, however, by the viciousness of their movements. These were not just men with a cause—they were angry men bent on destroying one another.

He knew not what was best to do. If he attempted to intervene, he might distract Smythe and cause him injury. Two against one, especially in a narrow corridor, were not truly any better odds. But neither could he simply leave them there to fight. If he went to help Darcy, one or the other could be killed, and Fitzwilliam did not trust either of them not to flee with Miss Bennet in tow again. It would, in fact, be a perfect time for him to rescue Miss Bennet himself, except that they were fighting directly in front of the chamber in which the man Wellington had said she was located. At least the door to the chamber was closed. He would just have to wait out the fight, to be prepared to offer aid if it was needed, and get ready to retrieve Miss Bennet as soon as the fight migrated or ended.

He stationed himself three-quarters of the way up the staircase where he could have a good view of the proceedings but not be in the way.

Before him, the fight continued, both men now employing every available tactic in order to triumph. Reg had taken to hurling any loose thing he found in the hallway, a chipped vase, a loose sconce, even the broken leg of a table, toward Smythe. The table leg caught Smythe on the left shoulder, and he cried out in pained anger, but it did not slow his movements. Smythe, in return, was entirely ignoring gentleman's dueling rules and appeared just as likely to jump on Reg if given half the chance and wrestle him to the ground as he was to disarm him and demand his surrender.

At one point, the two swords locked together, the men so near each other that they might have been dancing. Reg said through gritted teeth, pressing his entire weight against Smythe, "Do you want to know what it was like, Geoff? Do you want me to tell you how _your wife_ called out _my_ name as we lay in her bed so many nights? Shall I tell you how she… Ack!"

Smythe spat in Reg's face and pushed him to the ground in a sudden burst, then swung his sword down with both hands. Reg was momentarily blinded by the spittle, but he anticipated the attack and rolled to the side just in time, kicking out at Smythe's leg. Smythe crashed sideways against the wall before toppling to the floor, his sword flying out of his hand.

Reg fumbled madly for his weapon, which had rolled partially under the table holding the candelabra, giving Smythe enough time to retrieve his own sword and rise unsteadily to his feet. It was hard to tell, amidst the shadows and flickering light, but Fitzwilliam was fairly certain there was blood trickling down the left side of Smythe's face.

Smythe shook his head slowly and seemed to have trouble focusing, but he was quick enough to raise his arm when Reg finally stood and darted at him. He parried Reg's blow and managed to slash Reg's left shoulder viciously. Reg moved back out of his range, his face contorted in fury and pain.

"I hate you!" Reg cried. "Always better than everyone else, despite your family having less than nothing, despite your father being a gentleman gambler and your mother being little better than a whore! For years, I let you convince me that if we were patient, we could make these wealthy, debauched men pay for living off each other's failures and the honest efforts of the poor. And you were right—we could have been rich! But you and your conscience failed us! I will not be so foolhardy! I will show you what success truly is, what happiness truly is, and none of what I have will come at your behest!"

"I only ever wanted to make a real life for myself, for my future family, that was free of this old place, free of its worthless titles and its debts!" Smythe returned, swaying on his feet. "But true freedom could not come if we were always having to run from the law, to hide from those we had harmed. In all the years we have worked together, no one has ever had just cause to pursue us until now! I was keeping us safe, keeping both of us safe!"

Smythe kept talking, but under the sound of his voice, Fitzwilliam recognized the sounds of men approaching on the stairs below him. He spun and released a relieved breath at the sight of his four friends. Darcy was favoring his left side slightly but appeared well enough. Bingley was entirely unscathed and was staring up at the altercation above them with something like enthusiasm. Matthew had a blackened eye and a bloody lip, and he was supporting John, who was hopping up the stairs awkwardly on his left leg and looking pale. All in all, however, Fitzwilliam decided they were quite well enough. He gestured for them to be quiet and they nodded, all eyes on the fight in the upper corridor.

"But now you have ruined it all, do you not see?" Smythe continued ranting, finally appearing steadier. "After tonight, the men will no longer trust you. Most of them are honorable men, cautious men, who only ever involved themselves in this work because they could see that the wealthy upon whom we preyed had brought upon themselves their own ruin. Now they have seen the result of toying with the innocent. In one swoop, you have lost all you hoped to steal from me, my men's loyalty, my business, and my wife."

"What is he talking about?" Darcy whispered to Fitzwilliam.

Fitzwilliam shook his head. "I shall explain what I know later, although I remain unclear regarding much."

"She cares for me!" Reg bellowed, nearly apoplectic. "I shall not lose her!"

"You are right! You cannot lose what was never yours!"

Reg's next sound was an incoherent roar as he dove at Smythe. Smythe attempted to side-step him, but he was obviously still dazed from the blow to the head, and he was only able to slightly turn himself before Reg had brought him to the ground, his head hanging precariously over the top step of the staircase. They had both lost their swords upon impact, but Reg pressed Smythe down with his left forearm as he pulled a long dagger from his belt with his right.

"I will have all that is yours," Reg hissed, raising the knife above Smythe's heart.

Fitzwilliam bent to run, realizing the danger too late and already recognizing that he was too far to prevent it. Darcy cried out beside him and started up the stairs, also knowing the cause was lost.

They tripped to a stop as a small, shadowed figured darted out of the chamber nearest the stairs and smacked a long club of some kind against the back of Reg's head. The hand holding the knife continued its downward movement, but the force behind it was lost, and the point of the dagger ended buried half-an-inch into the floorboard less than a finger's-width from Smythe's shoulder before toppling with a clatter. Reg's entire body swayed and collapsed just to Smythe's side and across his legs.

Smythe kicked Reg off and struggled to his knees beside his former friend, obviously in a fair amount of pain. He looked up then, grimacing toward the figure hovering above him. "I believe now your debt to me is settled, my dear."

Fitzwilliam, beyond curious, raised the candelabra he still held and gasped. The figure standing above Reg, shaking like a leaf in the wind and still tightly holding her club, was Miss Elizabeth Bennet.


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Apologies in advance for any errors in this chapter. I'm uploading in the middle of a vacation, so my focus isn't as close as usual. Enjoy._

 _Disclaimer: I am not Jane Austen, and seriously, no one is surprised about that._

Chapter Fourteen

Lizzy was still staring down at the bloody mass that was the back of Reg's head when she felt two strong arms wrap around her tightly and an urgent kiss pressed to her temple. "Elizabeth, are you all right?"

She wanted to turn her face toward the voice that even in this moment made her feel a little warmer, a little safer, but she could not tear her eyes from the lifeless body before her. She pressed some words out through her chattering teeth as she rubbed her shoulder, made sore again by the strength of her swing. "Have… have I killed him?"

Colonel Fitzwilliam came forward, setting down the candelabra he had held on the stairs for the last several minutes and kneeling beside Reg. He reached under the man's neck, and after a moment, the tension in his face relaxed. "His heart is still beating. He is only unconscious."

Lizzy sagged against Mr. Darcy, his solid presence the only thing keeping her standing. "God be praised."

"Elizabeth," Mr. Darcy said, half-carrying her down a few steps and helping her to sit, "are you well? Did they harm you?"

"No, no," she assured him as she shook. "I am perfectly fine. Just… just frightened, I think."

"And no doubt overwrought. And exhausted." He sat beside her and pulled her against him, just as he had done during that long day in Lord Smythe's carriage. He leaned back just enough to remove his coat and wrap it around her, taking extra care around her shoulder and muttering imprecations the entire time regarding Reg and Smythe and the whole adventure.

Something about his discontented murmuring calmed her, allowing her to smile up at him weakly. "You came for me."

"Of course I came for you," he replied gruffly, glaring back over his shoulder at whatever was occurring behind them. "Although from what I can see, you hardly needed rescuing. What is that weapon you used?"

"One of the posts from the bed in that chamber. It was quite rotten, thank goodness."

He laughed in surprise, although his merriment did not last long. "You are a wonder, Elizabeth. You just saved a man's life."

"Yes," said a voice from behind them. Lizzy and Darcy both turned. It was Mr. Talmadge, still kneeling beside Reg's body with one hand pressing a handkerchief to the side of his forehead. He gazed down at Reg's back, his expression bemused. "You saved the life of the man who abducted you in the first place."

"You do not intend to kill him, do you?" Lizzy asked urgently. "I know you are angry, but I beg you, sir…"

"No, my dear Miss Bennet," he answered gravely. "I could kill him, and not a man here would blame me once he knew the truth, but… I have never been a violent man. I have no wish to be a murderer. And besides, I believe that Reg's debt to me for all this will be paid much more effectively by the years of misery he will suffer knowing that I am somewhere out of his reach, happy with my wife."

"What did you mean just now, sir," Lizzy asked, frowning, "regarding _my_ debt to you being paid? What could I possibly have owed you?"

Talmadge chuckled, then winced as the movement caused more pain in his head. "Only that I consider your saving of my life as more than sufficient repayment for saving you and Mr. Darcy from yourselves."

Lizzy and Mr. Darcy both stared at him, unimpressed.

"What? You did not think I actually intended to ransom you when I removed the both of you from Mr. Collins' house, did you? I am, as Reg kept pointing out, a man of honor."

"Then why?" Lizzy asked.

"I had been standing outside Mr. Collins's parlor for some minutes before either of you realized I was there. I overheard Mr. Darcy's proposal, as well as your vitriolic response. Honestly, I do not believe I have ever heard a worse proposal in my entire life," Mr. Talmadge added, giving Mr. Darcy a fatherly, disapproving sort of look that made Mr. Darcy blush slightly in spite of himself. "But there was something in his situation with which I identified. My own first application for Mrs. Talmadge's hand was nearly as bad, full of assumptions and misunderstandings, so I sympathized with his injury, with the sentiments that had brought him to lay himself so open to a girl who was, in society's eyes, significantly beneath him and whose opinion of him he had not understood. Everything that came after was done on a whim—I had not even realized my intention to threaten an abduction until I had spoken it, but the idea was so delicious that I could not resist."

"I still do not understand," Mr. Darcy frowned, glaring at Mr. Talmadge.

"He hoped that by placing the two of you in danger together," Colonel Fitzwilliam supplied, a smile dancing about his lips, "you would be able to move past your pride, misunderstandings, and prejudice, and fall well-and-truly in love."

"Just so," Talmadge agreed with a tired grin. "And I believe that portion of the plan could not have worked out more perfectly. By the time you escaped to London, I believe Miss Bennet was as much in love with you as she had despised you only two days before."

Lizzy blushed, dismayed to realize how transparent she had been, how easily this man had manipulated her, regardless of how much she appreciated the outcome. Truly, she could not have hated Mr. Darcy so completely if it had required only two days for her opinion to change so dramatically. Would she ever understand her own heart?

"I am sorry, however, for the trouble you endured afterward," Mr. Talmadge continued. "I am glad that it has all come to a happy end."

"Reg's ending is not happy," Lizzy replied, staring at the man who still lay unmoving on the ground, one of the men she did not recognize leaning over Reg and attempting to form a bandage to tie around the wound. "Do you believe he will seek his revenge upon us?"

"I doubt it," Talmadge said grimly, gingerly raising himself to his feet. "I believe all of his efforts will be bent either toward reestablishing a business here or chasing me to the Continent, set on vengeance."

Talmadge stared down at his old friend, his face a mask. He had retrieved his sword, and he gripped it tightly, the blade steady as it hung in the air above Reg. "I really ought to kill him, you know, despite my qualms. He has betrayed me in the worst way, and his conscience will not prevent him from causing me no end of trouble. And yet, I find I have no wish to do so. I am a fool." He shook his head, finally managing to tear his gaze from the body at his feet. "'Tis a good thing, I think, that I never told anyone, not even Reg, of my intentions once Mrs. Talmadge and I reach France."

The mention of his wife seemed to surprise him. "Tildy! I must get to her. She may have already reached Amersham by now."

"If so," Lizzy said, "she intended to borrow her brother-in-law's phaeton and make her way to… to a cousin, I think, in High Wycombe."

Mr. Talmadge started down the stairs and reached for her hand, raising it to his lips. "And now, I am even more in your debt, Miss Bennet. Bless you."

"Take care of her, sir!" Lizzy called after him as he made his way down with some difficulty, leaning against the railing to keep his balance. "Be kind!"

He turned back, and something about the shadows around him, the lantern light barely lighting his countenance and the wound above his brow, gave him a roguish, dangerous sort of handsomeness that gave Lizzy hope in his ability to win his wife's favor. "She will never have cause to doubt me again—that I swear! Farewell!"

He disappeared out the front door.

"Nice of him to leave us with an unconscious, bleeding man and a house full of bound miscreants," Colonel Fitzwilliam said, sitting down heavily on Lizzy's other side.

She reached out on a whim and grasped his hand. He looked exhausted, more than exhausted, and it had all been for her sake. At her touch he looked up in surprise. Then he offered her a boyish grin and squeezed her hand in return.

"Thank you, Colonel, for everything," Lizzy said. "You have proven yourself a true and loyal friend."

"You may as well know now, my dear Miss Bennet, that I am never one to pass up an adventure."

She looked behind her again at the other three men. "And thanks to all of you. I cannot express…" She drew in a sharp breath. "Mr. Bingley?"

Mr. Bingley was supporting one of the unknown men and wearing a sheepish smile. He looked a little disheveled but remarkably like himself, besides his dark, non-descript coat. "Good morning, Miss Bennet. I am vastly pleased to see you looking so well."

"And I, you, sir."

Mr. Darcy chuckled beside her and gestured to the other two men. "Elizabeth, these are two of my footmen from Darcy House, John and Matthew. I only wish there were more illustrious positions available in my household, for I can assure you, I would promote both of them without a moment's hesitation."

The large one, Matthew, looked embarrassed. "Just doing my duty, sir."

John, the one leaning on Mr. Bingley, smiled, although his face was pale. "Thank you, sir. Just knowing you've said it will please my mother to no end. I shall get a month of her best pies and tarts out of this, if not a year."

Mr. Darcy laughed. "Good point. I suppose all of Darcy House will benefit from Mrs. Luden's motherly pride."

"I especially enjoy her gooseberry jam," Fitzwilliam added hopefully. "You will mention that to her, will you not?"

They all laughed then, and Lizzy leaned against Mr. Darcy, whose arms moved fully around her once again.

"I shall go down and have a talk with Wellington, one of Smythe's men," Colonel Fitzwilliam said, rising with a sigh. "Or is it Talmadge? Wellington seems to disapprove of Reg, and I think he will help us by waiting a few minutes to untie all the other men after we have gone."

"I doubt any of them would pursue us," Mr. Bingley said cheerfully, fingering the hilt of his sword, which rested in his scabbard. "I believe they have all learned a valuable lesson today."

"Let us hope so," the colonel agreed. "I shall have him send for a doctor for Reg before they disappear. Do you think Talmadge intends to return to the house after he retrieves his wife?"

"I do not think so," Lizzy said slowly. "I believe he wishes to be as far away as possible before Reg is able to pursue him."

"Good. Allow me to speak to Wellington. Matthew, go prepare one of the stable's horses for Miss Bennet."

"There is no need," Mr. Darcy said. "She will ride with me until Chalfont St. Peters. I believe we can secure a carriage there, hopefully before dawn, as it would be better for her not to be observed."

Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded and entered a room at the bottom of the stairs.

"Matthew, Bingley, would you very carefully move Reg into one of the rooms and tie him to the bedstead? The doctor who comes can release him, should he see fit to do so."

Matthew nodded, raising Reg up over his shoulder with surprisingly little effort, and after lowering John to the ground gently, Bingley followed him in, tugging a length of rope from Matthew's pocket before they moved into the nearest chamber.

"Oh, Elizabeth," Mr. Darcy said, heaving a heavy sigh and leaning his head against Lizzy's.

"It is all over now, is it not?" she asked hopefully.

"Yes, all but the ending. I wish I could take you back to Darcy House this morning, where I could be assured you could rest and recover in peace for the next week, but all of this would be for naught if we did not return you to Kent in time for those around Rosings, especially Lady Catherine's servants and tenants, to see you leave for London with Miss Lucas."

"You are perfectly right," she responded, matching his sigh, "although a week of sleep and pampering sounds far more appealing than three more days of traveling and then having to pretend to one and all that I have spent the past two weeks taking quiet walks around Rosings and finishing my sampler."

"Will you tell your family of our adventures?"

"I will tell my father, certainly, but I believe I shall wait to do it until after I am home safe in Hertfordshire, where he can see that I am well. I shall certainly _never_ tell my mother and younger sisters, for once they knew it, the entire county would know also. But Jane and Aunt Gardiner? I do not know. I do not think I will be able to hide it all from them, but they will be so overwhelmed by it that I admit I would rather they never knew. Will you tell anyone?"

"The only people I would ever consider trusting with such an outrageous story already know it—Fitzwilliam and Bingley. I will certainly never tell Georgiana—she would never leave the house again."

Lizzy laughed sadly. "It is somewhat unfortunate to have survived such troubles yet never be able to speak about them. Think how gratifying the gasps of all those society matrons would be!"

Mr. Darcy laughed, too, although he seemed to wince and favor his side at the movement. "I believe it is you who enjoys the eyes of society upon you. I feel no such temptation."

Lizzy turned to face him, their knees knocking together. She pressed her hand slightly against the side of his waistcoat and frowned as he winced again. "You are injured! Why did you not say anything?"

"'Tis only a few bruised ribs," he answered, removing her hand by clasping it with his own. "I allowed my attention to be distracted for a moment while we were subduing the large man and Scar Hand at the back door, so I brought it on myself."

She frowned at him disapprovingly. "Riding a horse will be a misery."

"An unavoidable inconvenience," he sighed, raising her hand to his lips. "We will ride very slowly and avoid divots in the road with all care."

She nodded, relaxing a little. "That would be quite sensible."

He reached up and touched her cheek gently, reverently. "I know not how I shall ever let you out of my sight again. These last hours have been the most harrowing of my life."

She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes. "I knew you would be worried. I longed to reach out somehow, wherever you were, and comfort you."

"Are you truly all right?"

"Perfectly well. Only tired."

He pressed his forehead against hers. "Can you ever forgive me for all of these difficulties you have suffered?"

She pulled back far enough to look into his eyes sternly. "If you speak a single other word regarding your carrying _any_ blame at _all_ for these past few days, I will…"

"'Twas only your connection to me that caused Smythe—Talmadge—to abduct you in the…"

Lizzy leaned forward and pressed her lips against his forcefully for a moment before pulling back.

He stared at her. "Was that your version of wishing me luck again?"

"Yes. I will do whatever I must to avoid listening to such foolishness, and you will need all the luck in the world to escape my wrath if you continue blaming yourself needlessly for _anything_ in connection to our dramatic misadventure."

His eyes seemed darker than before as he allowed a smirk to appear at the corner of his lips. "Generally speaking, I believe it is wise to be certain one's method of expressing displeasure is unpleasant to the receiver. Your version of a threat only encourages my behavior."

Lizzy stomach swooped low inside her at his words, then twisted into knots as she felt his arms tighten around her. "Perhaps… I shall…" she stuttered, "I will need… to rethink my methods."

"Please do not."

His mouth met hers again, and her thoughts fluttered away, everything irrelevant but the sensations she was suddenly experiencing. Both kisses she had given him had been short and sharp, but this kiss was neither. His lips began sliding across hers, jolting her like a bolt of lightning. She stiffened then turned into a rag doll, entirely boneless and at his mercy.

So _this_ was a real kiss.

He pulled back quite suddenly, his expression regretful. He loosened his hold and straightened, although his hands both remained in contact with her, as if he could not quite manage to let go. He cursed under his breath. "I should not have… Elizabeth, I am so… I have worked so hard to respect you, to treat you as a lady no matter our circumstances and no matter the temptation. I should never have given into my impulses in such a way, for now it will be so much more difficult to maintain my distance."

"I do not wish for distance," Lizzy argued, her heart suddenly so swollen with love for him that she almost could not speak. "Perhaps if our courtship had been normal, if we had truly come to know one another in stuffy parlors and on chaperoned garden rambles, I might have expected such behaviors. But sir, I have learned to appreciate you in the most unique of circumstances, while facing danger and riding for miles behind you and lying beside you in the dark. I have no use for distance. I want to be near you always."

"Have I a chance then?" he asked, his face splitting into a wide grin. "After Hunsford, I told myself you could never accept me, yet I could not quench the hope that your feelings had begun to change. I am still the same man I was, Elizabeth, the man you despised so very recently."

"In essentials, you are that man, one I would have admired from the first moment had I seen him as clearly then as I do now. But you have also seen your errors, and I know you have been making attempts to temper your pride, as I am working harder not to judge so immediately, to accept justified reproof. We are neither of us perfect," she said, reaching up to touch his face, "but if you can love me for all my strengths and weaknesses, I find myself quite equal to the task of accepting yours."

He kissed her fiercely, quickly. "Marry me, I beg of you."

"Nothing on earth could bring me greater happiness."

Their next kiss was joyful, and it did not end quickly, not until a creaking of one of the floorboards on the floor below returned them to the present.

"Wellington has agreed," the colonel said from the bottom of the stairs, causing them to jump apart, although not very far. He smiled smugly at them as he continued, "He even sends the two of you his compliments. Apparently Darcy bought him a new jacket? I believe we can trust him."

"Reg is on his stomach on the bed, tied to all four posts," Mr. Bingley said from above them. Lizzy turned sharply, and the amused expressions on his, Matthew's, and John's faces told her that they had been standing there longer than she might prefer. She blushed violently as he continued, "He'll not be going anywhere soon, even if he awakens with all his senses intact."

Mr. Darcy stood with a huff and helped her to her feet. At the bottom of the stairs, he murmured to his cousin, "It is only the ties of blood that are keeping me from calling you out right now for that interruption."

The colonel chuckled quietly. "Would not want to use up all of your mutual delight in only a few moments, now would we?"

As they passed through the front door into the lightening pre-dawn, Mr. Bingley cleared his throat just behind Lizzy. "Miss Bennet, might I speak to you for a moment?"

Lizzy glanced at Mr. Darcy, who, after a look between Lizzy and Mr. Bingley, nodded and said, "I shall retrieve our horses."

Lizzy's eyes lingered on his handsomely bedraggled form until Mr. Bingley cleared his throat again and began, "Miss Bennet, I must return to London this morning while you make your way to Kent, but I wanted to ask you something before we part ways."

"Anything, sir."

"Darcy confessed to me yesterday regarding his keeping your sister's presence in London a secret from me." His eyes fastened on Mr. Darcy's back in disgruntlement for a moment before he shook his head as if to clear it. "I was quite angry, but he explained himself and apologized. I have always found it difficult to hold a grudge."

"You are a good man, Mr. Bingley."

"No. That is, I fear perhaps I am not. Certainly, Caroline and Darcy deceived me, but I… well, it was my own choice that took me from Hertfordshire, away from Jane… er, Miss Bennet."

He paused, looking hopeful.

"What exactly are you asking me, sir?"

"Oh. Well, I wonder whether you, as her sister, believe it might be possible for her to forgive me. I… I should like to visit her in London as soon as may be. Would she… receive me, do you think?"

Lizzy shifted uncertainly, rubbing her arms as the cold of the new morning began to penetrate the thin sleeves of her gown. Jane's feelings were certainly not Lizzy's to share, but she did feel she owed Mr. Bingley some gratitude. "I can make no guarantee, sir. I know she was disappointed at your abandonment in November, and I know she has been somewhat depressed in spirit ever since, but I have not seen her or spoken with her of such things since just after Christmas."

Mr. Bingley appeared somewhat downcast himself. "Ah. Do you think her feelings may have changed then? Would it be best not to intrude upon her again?" He looked alarmed suddenly. "Has she spoken of… anyone else, any other gentleman? In her letters, I mean?"

"No, sir," Lizzy answered. "She has spoken of no one else. But as to whether you should seek her out again, I believe that is a question only you can answer. You must do what your heart directs, regardless of anyone else's opinion."

He straightened then, an almost-fierce light appearing in his eyes. "You are right. I _shall_ visit her then and see for myself whether or not I am welcome. First thing tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is Sunday, I believe, sir," Lizzy offered gently, trying not to show her amusement. She noticed Mr. Darcy and the others approaching, leading several mounts.

"Ah. Monday then."

"If I may make one small suggestion, I think perhaps you ought to wait until after I am present with her. Jane and I are of much comfort to each other, and I have no doubt that, regardless of her current feelings towards you, your appearance will disconcert her. My presence will lend her confidence, and afterward I will help her sort through her feelings."

"Of course," he replied, squaring his shoulders again. "You are an admirably thoughtful sister, Miss Elizabeth. You will return to London on Monday afternoon?"

Lizzy felt Mr. Darcy move beside her, and she automatically reached out, wrapping her arm through his. "Yes, sir."

"Then I shall call upon you all Tuesday morning." He smiled, cheerful again.

"I will be wishing you the best of luck, sir."

"Thank you."

He accepted his reins from Darcy, who reached out to take his hand. "My gratitude for your help this day knows no bound, Bingley. You are an excellent fellow, and the best of friends."

Mr. Bingley returned Darcy's handshake heartily, smiling. "I would not have missed it for the world, old man. Call on me when you return to London."

Mr. Bingley suddenly looked back at Lizzy, appearing concerned. "Miss Bennet, might I also ask that if you choose to tell your sister of all this, you not mention my part in it? I would not wish any gratitude she might feel to encourage her to accept my friendship beyond her natural inclination."

Lizzy pursed her lips, but after a moment, she nodded. "I understand. She will not hear of your involvement from me—at least not for some time."

"Thank you."

They watched Mr. Bingley mount, along with Matthew and, with some assistance from the colonel, John. Lizzy noticed that John's injured leg was bound tightly, but once he was astride, he did not appear to be in too much pain. "John and Matthew are returning to London as well."

"Thank you both again!" Lizzy called to them, raising her hand. "Good journey!"

They both nodded to her, doffing their caps before turning to follow Mr. Bingley out through the main gate onto the road.

Mr. Darcy led Lizzy toward a horse, and she sighed at the sight of the great beast standing before her.

Mr. Darcy chuckled, hugging her against his side. "Only for a few minutes," he assured her. "Just remember to relax, and the ride will not be at all unpleasant."

"I suppose not." She watched thoughtfully as he mounted. "After all, I think my opinion of you underwent its most monumental shift on the back of a horse."

He stared down at her. "When?"

"When you told me I was not pretty."

Lizzy felt something warm and soft wrap around her from behind, and she looked down to see a lovely cloak in a vibrant shade of dark green and lined with ermine. She looked over her shoulder into the colonel's laughing eyes. "He really said that?"

"I was only speaking the truth," Mr. Darcy defended, winking at her.

Lizzy laughed. "It was the nicest compliment I have ever received."

The colonel shook his head, muttering something about lovebirds.

"Is this Mrs. Talmadge's?" Lizzy asked, gesturing to the cloak.

He nodded. "Since they are not to return, I assume she shall no longer be in need of it."

"Thank you, Colonel." She met his eyes, willing him to understand the depth of her words.

"You shall be my cousin soon enough," he replied gently, glancing up at Mr. Darcy. "We Fitzwilliams always take care of our own."

She smiled shyly then turned back to the horse, reaching up to take Mr. Darcy's hand while the colonel boosted her onto the back of the saddle. She settled against Mr. Darcy, this time burrowing as close to him as she could manage without aggravating his injured side.

They started down the road at the gentle pace he had promised.

"Mr. Darcy?"

"Yes, Elizabeth?"

"I missed you, too."

"I am very glad to hear it."

* * *

When their carriage pulled into the yard at Hunsford parsonage just before dark Sunday evening, Fitzwilliam found himself surprisingly well rested. He had only just awakened after dozing off and on for most of the last several hours, really the last two days, and he had to shake Darcy and Miss Bennet awake as well.

They had made a valiant attempt to observe the proprieties, despite Miss Bennet being alone in a carriage with two unrelated gentlemen, but the two of them had quite naturally gravitated toward each other in sleep. They both seemed quite abashed to find that he had been sleeping leaned against the wall with his legs stretched out on the seat and Miss Bennet wrapped in his arms, her legs between his and her head on his chest.

It had been fascinating, during the times of the long journey when he had been awake, to watch the two of them together. On the journey from Dover to Islington, they had displayed a strange level of awkward comfort with one another: their speech was quite cautious and appropriate, but their need for regular physical contact often overpowered their sensibilities. But now all awkwardness was gone. They sat as close to one another as they could manage at all times, their hands wrapped together and their faces near each other's for every conversation.

That closeness, that complete absorption in one another, was what he found so arresting. He had spent time with his share of engaged couples, his brother and sister-in-law included, but he had never observed in them such an intense physical connection. That was also true for the newlyweds he had known. Even in quiet moments, when he had observed Andrew and Sophia alone together, there was always a sort of proprietous distance between them no matter how closely they sat. Society demanded a certain formality between husband and wife that he had never seen breached.

But Darcy and Miss Bennet had smashed through that separation as if it had never existed. At the beginning of the trip, they had tried to sit across the carriage from each other, but still they had constantly discovered their hands tangled together. He shook his head again now, watching as they sat up and righted one another's apparel with the familiarity and casualness of an old, married couple.

"You two do remember that in polite society, it is not considered appropriate for a single gentleman to assist an unmarried lady in re-pinning her hair, do you not?"

Darcy shot him a sour look before focusing on opening the tiny hairpin he held between his inexperienced fingers. "Would it be preferable for her to emerge from the carriage she was sharing with two single gentlemen looking disheveled?"

"Polite society is all well and good, Colonel," Miss Bennet added, sitting as still as she could and making a valiant attempt not to wince at Darcy's fumbling, "but if this trip has taught us nothing else, we have learned that what _ought_ to happen is not always what _must_ happen. We all should learn to be a little more… understanding."

 _We,_ she had said, as if the two of them were a single entity. Fitzwilliam shook his head again. How they would reenter normal society, he could not imagine.

A few moments later, Miss Bennet declared herself ready to emerge. Darcy stepped out first and handed her down, leaving Fitzwilliam to exit just as the parsonage's kitchen door was thrown open and a figure he had both dreaded and dreamed of seeing dashed out into the twilight.

"My dearest Lizzy!"

"Oh, Charlotte!" Miss Bennet rushed toward her, and the two women flung their arms around one another, laughing and crying in that strange mixture that only women could manage. "I am so very glad to see you!"

"You are back, you are back," Mrs. Collins repeated, trying to dry her eyes while keeping Lizzy close. "I have been so worried. I am so sorry—so sorry for all of this."

"Of all the people who could claim some responsibility for all that occurred, you are the least culpable," Miss Bennet laughingly declared. "And as you can see, all is well now. I am safe and whole, and Mr. Darcy is safe and whole, and thanks to you and Lady Catherine, the colonel tells us, the story of our misadventure will never be known."

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Collins hiccupped, "you can be assured that Lady Catherine will not be spreading this particular story about town. Even the servants who work at Rosings know only a little of what has occurred, and they have all received pay increases in order to keep their tongues from wagging."

"Lady Catherine authorized a pay increase?" Darcy asked with astonishment. "Forgive me—it is very good to see you, Mrs. Collins, but I am quite surprised."

"We are quite glad to see you, too, Mr. Darcy. And yes, even your aunt could see that it was far too important to keep the story of Anne's excesses and their consequences from reaching the ears of society to leave it only to loyalty. According to Mr. Nelson, she is finally willing, after all of this trouble, to reassess the estate's situation and consider reasonable methods of economizing and increasing productivity. Her eagerness to do so would be almost humorous if it were not for the misery so obvious in her every word and expression."

"I could not believe it when Fitzwilliam told me about Anne," Darcy said gravely. "How could we have all been so deceived? Poor Lady Catherine."

"Though not as poor as she might have been," Fitzwilliam reminded them. He had crossed the yard as they spoke and now stepped into their circle.

"And we are told that we have you to thank for that, as well, Mrs. Collins," Darcy said, bowing deeply to her. "You have our entire family's humble, unending gratitude."

"Indeed," Fitzwilliam agreed. He bowed to Mrs. Collins, who curtsied to him but would not meet his gaze. "I hope you have recovered from your own adventures, Mrs. Collins, undertaken on our behalves."

"Welcome back to Kent, Colonel," she replied. It was growing dark, but he thought there might be a slight blush on her cheeks. "I am perfectly well recovered, thank you."

"I am glad to hear it. And your sister? Is she well enough to travel back to London tomorrow?"

"Maria? Oh, yes, she is quite well. Her head still aches sometimes, and she still sleeps for much of each day—she retired almost an hour ago—but she has improved enough that she is eager again to visit London. She will be overjoyed knowing that Lizzy has returned and all is well."

"And she will keep this little secret?" Darcy asked.

"Yes, sir. She may be flighty and thoughtless sometimes, but she is a good girl, and she adores Lizzy. She would never say anything that might harm her."

"I am glad," he replied, looking relieved.

"My dear Mrs. Collins!" called a most unwelcome voice from the kitchen door. "Why did you not tell me we have guests? Why I am… Mr. Darcy! Cousin Elizabeth! You are returned."

The ridiculous man stood framed by the light from the kitchen, making his hesitation and hand-wringing quite obvious. Fitzwilliam had wondered how he would respond to his cousin's return, how he would face Darcy after all the trouble he had caused.

"Yes, Mr. Collins," Miss Bennet replied quite cheerfully, walking arm-in-arm with Mrs. Collins toward the door. "We are quite well. Thank you for asking."

Fitzwilliam chortled quietly at her subtle barb, drawing an eye roll from Darcy.

"Excellent. That is… excellent. Will you not all enter and take some refreshment? We must… that is, we ought to celebrate your safe arrival. Did not Mrs. Locken make some of her marmalade tarts this evening, my dear?"

"She did," Mrs. Collins replied as they entered. She made some effort to smile in her husband's general direction, and he beamed back at her, as if she had offered him the world.

For the first time through all of this, and most reluctantly, Fitzwilliam found himself feeling sorry for Mr. Collins. To be a man of such unfortunate aspect with obsequious manners was pathetic enough, but to know that through one's own efforts, one had lost the good opinion of one's adored spouse? Mr. Collins was a pitiable figure for certain.

Not that pitying him prevented Fitzwilliam from also despising him. He did not deserve his wife in any way, and yet, because she was so good, she would remain his for the rest of his life. As he half-listened to the little man prattling while leading them through the kitchen into the parlor, he felt all the misery of their particular situation.

He was in love with a woman who was married to a man not good enough for her. He was struck suddenly with the similarity of his situation to Reg's, as Miss Bennet had explained it yesterday. It was only his own honor, or even more so, Mrs. Collins's, that would prevent him from attempting to do as Reg had done, to seduce her or abduct her or employ any other nefarious scheme he could concoct to make her his. In the end he might win her, but how many vows, how many hearts, how many lives would be broken along the way?

"Colonel?"

He blinked, returning with a thud to the present. He looked around, realizing that they were standing in the parlor and everyone was staring at him expectantly, Darcy hiding a smirk.

"I beg your pardon—I was lost in my thoughts. What did you ask, Mrs. Collins?"

"I asked whether you would like to be seated." She motioned toward the chair near which he stood, and he realized that everyone but himself and Mrs. Collins had taken a seat.

"Of course. Thank you." He sat.

"I suppose you all have an interesting story to share with us," Mr. Collins said, breaking the awkward silence in the room. "Having never been spirited away myself, I am certain I am little able to imagine how miserable and torturous the entire experience has been, but as a clergyman and one of Miss Bennet's nearest relations, I feel it is my duty to attempt to sympathize with your woes."

"Actually," Miss Bennet broke in before he could continue, "it was all quite unremarkable. We were bound and carried somewhere, kept captive for several days, then released once Miss de Bourgh's debt was repaid."

"That is all?" Mr. Collins asked. "But you must have been frightened, my young cousin."

"Certainly, at first," she agreed. "But I was quite alone, quite unthreatened, and after some unknown amount of time, I was simply bored. It was a relief to be released and rejoin Mr. Darcy. Colonel Fitzwilliam found us soon afterward—somewhere in Sussex, was it not, sir?"

"Yes," Fitzwilliam affirmed seriously. "In Sussex."

"And was your experience similar, Mr. Darcy?" Mr. Collins asked, his eyes wide.

"Exactly the same," Darcy confirmed, not bothering to temper his distaste for the man.

"Well. Well, well, that is… excellent news, I suppose. Yes, yes, excellent news. And now you are returned to us."

"Yes, Mr. Collins," Mrs. Collins said slowly. Fitzwilliam thought he could see her gritting her teeth, but it was not entirely obvious. The parlor door opened, and the maidservant Molly carried in a tray. "Oh, Molly! Thank you."

At the sight of Darcy and Miss Bennet, little Molly froze in the middle of the room, the tray sliding from her hands in a great clatter of cutlery and dishes. "Oh, sir! Miss! You are back! Oh, I'm that glad! I've been so worried—I'm so sorry, sorry for the part I played. 'Twas my father, sir—he tried his hand at betting on the horses, sir, and his debt weren't so big, but we couldn't pay it all the same, and Lord Smythe told him that he would forgive the debt if I were to help him, and…"

"Molly!" Mr. Collins began, his face red. "What have you done?"

Miss Bennet jumped to her feet and crossed the room, braving the sea of broken crockery to take the sobbing Molly in her arms. "Hush, dear girl. We are not angry with you. Your family was in a terrible situation, none of which was your fault. You were only doing your best to help."

"I didna know anyone would be taken or harmed!"

"We are perfectly fine, you see?" She stepped back and flung out her arms, smiling widely. "And Mr. Darcy is very well, too." Her smiled deepened as she looked at him, perched awkwardly on the settee. She leaned down and whispered very loudly to Molly. "I even think the captivity might have been good for Mr. Darcy. He seems to me far more handsome than he was before, now that sitting in a locked room alone for several days has chased away his habitual scowl."

Miss Bennet seemed to be correct, for instead of glowering at her and rising to gaze out the window as if disgusted, which is what he would have done only a fortnight before, he remained seated and leaned over his knees with a teasing smile. "I am not, however, certain that captivity has been equally beneficial for Miss Bennet. Days of solitude and silence have only made her cheekier."

"For shame, Mr. Darcy!" Miss Bennet laughed, her eyes twinkling. She spun back to Molly, who was watching them both with uncertain hopefulness. "As you can see, my dear, we are both entirely well. You have no need to feel guilty."

"Thank you, Miss." Molly finally seemed to realize the mess she had made with the tray, and her face crumpled. "Oh, Mrs. Collins, I am so very sorry."

Mr. Collins began to speak, his face still similar in shade to a spoonful of strawberry jam, but Mrs. Collins placed a restraining hand on his arm.

"Your apology is accepted, Molly," Mrs. Collins replied with an appropriate mixture of warmth and censure. "But we must not allow our emotions to get the better of us, must we?"

"No, ma'am. I shall do better next time, I promise. I'll go for the broom. Excuse me."

Mrs. Collins sighed at the mess before turning back to face them all. "I am sorry about your refreshments, but under the circumstances…"

"We should not have bothered you anyway at such a late hour," Fitzwilliam apologized. "We must make our way to Rosings, and you certainly wish to speak privately with your friend."

"Thank you, Colonel."

Everyone stood, but no one seemed prepared for the required leave-taking. There was so much between the four of them, so much they each wished to say to one another, but with Mr. Collins present, none of it could be spoken.

"I should be pleased to offer my carriage to you tomorrow, Miss Bennet," Darcy said hopefully, "for your and Miss Lucas's trip to London. We are returning there ourselves tomorrow, and we will be more than happy to accompany you."

Miss Bennet nodded instantly then frowned. "I suppose we need a chaperone, do we not, Charlotte?"

"I cannot spare anyone, but perhaps one of the Rosings servants could accompany you."

"I will arrange it myself," Darcy assured her.

Miss Bennet's face cleared. "Thank you for your generous offer, Mr. Darcy." She curtsied quite formally.

"It is my pleasure, Miss Bennet."

Fitzwilliam and Darcy stood for a few more seconds before either of them could manage to move toward the door. They had made it only three or four steps before Darcy spun back around, his expression stiff. "Mr. Collins, as her temporary guardian, might I beg a moment to have a private interview with Miss Bennet before my cousin and I depart?"

"Well, I… I do not know, sir…" Mr. Collins blustered. "It is terribly late, and considering that you and she were closeted in this parlor together for some time before all of this trouble began, I think perhaps it would be unwise to leave the two of you…"

Darcy made a sound of desperate frustration and strode past Mr. Collins to stand straight in front of Miss Bennet, taking her hands. "I warned you I would find it difficult to leave your side again."

She gazed up at him, her cheeks pink. "You did."

Darcy opened his mouth to speak but seemed lost for words, his gaze troubled.

Miss Bennet smiled sympathetically. "I am perfectly safe now."

"I know that. In theory."

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. She began to move back, but Darcy grabbed for her, and she let him pull her closer.

Fitzwilliam turned away, rolling his eyes at a surprised-but-pleased Mrs. Collins. She, in turn, spun her husband around, who was staring at the lovers with a fish-mouth.

"You were right," Mrs. Collins told Fitzwilliam.

He nodded. "And I have paid for it. Trapped in a carriage with this particular couple for two long days! I have never seen so much hand-holding and love-struck gazing in all my life."

"It is a far better end than I could possibly have foreseen when all this began."

"Should we not put a stop to this… this _display_?" Mr. Collins whispered loudly. "If Lady Catherine were here, she would…"

"But she is not here," Mrs. Collins replied, her words clipped and as sharp as knives. "If you feel you must protest, as a clergyman or Lizzy's relation, then go do so in your study."

Mr. Collins huffed, hunching as if injured, but his wife did not rescind her comment, and he slunk from the room like a scolded child.

Suddenly, Fitzwilliam found himself wishing Mr. Collins were still present. The noise of the amorous couple behind them made quite an uncomfortable accompaniment to the jangling of his own emotions.

"Mrs. Collins," Fitzwilliam said in a low voice, "I know that I will see you tomorrow before we depart, but I believe it would be best for me to use this moment to officially take my leave of you."

He made the mistake of looking up into her face and was arrested by the absolute attention of those pale blue eyes on his face. How he hated Darcy in that moment! How he hated any man who could kiss the woman he loved with impunity!

"I am not good with words, madam. I am a soldier, not a diplomat or businessman. I only wish to say…" He struggled even for the plainest of phrases. "You are an incredible woman. Despite my attempts to prevent you, you have proven yourself to be far more intelligent, resourceful, and self-sacrificing than I could ever have imagined. I admire you more than I can say. I only hope that, even if I never have the opportunity to tell you so again, you remember how much I… how very deeply I…" He held his breath for a moment then blew it out, feeling like a fool under her owlish, watchful gaze. "I wish the very best for you, Mrs. Collins."

 _I love you,_ he said in his head. _I adore you, and I can hardly bear the thought of the rest of my life without you._

"Colonel Fitzwilliam," Mrs. Collins said quietly, her voice tight, "I am most grateful for your help for my friend, but I am even more grateful for your… your good opinion. It means much to be… thought well of by a man I… respect and admire so very, very much. I, too, wish you all the best in your future endeavors."

 _She loves me, too_ , he realized. The sentiment was not in her words, but it was there in her eyes, in the way she gripped his hand as he raised her fingers to his mouth. _She loves me._

His lips brushed lightly over her knuckles, and he watched her eyes close as a tremor moved through her. He knew in that moment, with a knowledge so certain it filled every inch of him, that if he pulled her into his arms right then, she would kiss him back as enthusiastically as Miss Bennet was kissing Darcy. He could see the passion in her face, the mixture of affection and desire that was already making it nearly impossible for them to remain apart.

He knew that the next time they met, their weakness for each other would only have increased. And what would happen then, when he gave into his impulses and attempted to seduce her? His body thrummed with hope for her acquiescence, and his heart yearned for the closeness, the companionship he could find with her, but his mind… his mind cried out at the possibility that she would prove strong enough to spurn him, that she would learn to despise him for his faithlessness.

She pulled her hand away at a sound from the hallway, her eyes downcast and her cheeks rosy.

Fitzwilliam spun toward Darcy and Miss Bennet, discovering them speaking in whispers, both still wrapped around each other with their faces only inches apart. The sight annoyed him deeply.

"Come, Darcy, you have accosted Miss Bennet enough for one night. Allow her to retire. You will see her tomorrow."

"And every day thereafter," Miss Bennet assured Darcy, gazing warmly up into his eyes.

He kissed her forehead, drawing in one more deep breath. "Sleep well, my love."

"Of course I shall not!" she cried, pretending offense. "Am I not supposed to lie awake all night now imagining our future?"

Darcy grinned at her, even as Fitzwilliam dragged him toward the door. "I would rather you sleep peacefully so that tomorrow we may discuss the future together as long as we wish."

"Stop!" Fitzwilliam cried. "I cannot bear anymore of this! You make me feel as if I have eaten an entire tray full of those marmalade tarts! Adieu, Miss Bennet. Goodnight, Mrs. Collins."

"Good evening, Colonel," Miss Bennet laughed, curtsying prettily. "Good evening, Mr. Darcy."

Mrs. Collins curtsied primly, her eyes still on the floor.

Fitzwilliam did not give Darcy time to offer his own farewell before dragging him protesting right out of the house. It took all the way until they had reached the carriage steps before Darcy awakened enough from his love-induced stupor to shove Fitzwilliam's hands from his sleeve and climb the carriage steps himself, grumbling.

"Stop fussing," Fitzwilliam griped as they driver pulled back out of the yard. "You will see your beloved tomorrow. Absence will only endear her to you."

"The last time we were parted, she was abducted."

"Darcy, stop being ridiculous. The danger is past. You cannot live your life always at her side."

"I can try," he mumbled.

Fitzwilliam groaned and leaned over, rubbing his face in his hands. Only a half-hour ago, he had felt refreshed, but already, he was exhausted again. He remained in that position for several minutes before Darcy finally spoke.

"I am being insufferable."

"Yes," Fitzwilliam replied through his hands. He hesitated for some time before adding, "But I suppose you have some right to it. I am truly happy for you, Darcy."

"Thank you. I shall need your support in dealing with our family. Their responses to Elizabeth's situation may require a great deal of patience."

"And liquor," Fitzwilliam quipped.

Darcy chuckled grimly. "Very possibly."

"I would not worry too much, old man," Fitzwilliam offered. "Andrew will moan and fuss, but he will support you. The moment he sees you and your bride-to-be together, he will be too shocked and impressed by the changes she has wrought in you to quibble about her lack of status. As for father…"

Darcy smirked. "The earl's bluster will be noisy but quite harmless. It is your mother whose response I can least predict and whose snub Elizabeth will feel most acutely if she decides against us."

"Yes," Fitzwilliam mused, "she is certainly unpredictable. I will do my best for you, but I make no promises."

"For a man who declared himself quite vehemently against our union only a few days ago, I am surprised that you have grown so accepting. I am grateful for your support, but I do not understand it."

"No more so do I," Fitzwilliam sighed. "Perhaps I am more of a romantic than I realized."

"You? A romantic?" Darcy laughed. "There are many appellations one could apply to you, Fitz, but I have never considered 'romantic' as one of them."

"Nor I, Darcy," Fitzwilliam answered, attempting to smile.

As they entered the front door at Rosings some minutes later, Evans was the first to greet them. Although Fitzwilliam suspected no one had offered the Rosings staff any explanations of the events of the previous ten days, it came as no surprise that Evans was quite relieved at seeing Darcy walk through the door. As Mrs. Collins had mentioned, they could not have been entirely blind.

Upon learning that Lady Catherine was in the drawing room, the two gentlemen shared an unenthusiastic glance and made their way into the overheated room. Their aunt had always insisted that the shared rooms at Rosings be kept overly warm for Anne's sake, and Fitzwilliam supposed it was now simply a habit for the staff despite there no longer being a need.

"Lady Catherine," Darcy began, cutting a respectful bow upon entering, "we are returned."

There was no answer from the shadowed form in Lady Catherine's customary chair.

"Lady Catherine?" Fitzwilliam repeated as he stepped closer, attempting to see her despite the fact that the only light in the room came from the fireplace behind her.

"I heard him," replied a gravelly voice. It was Lady Catherine's, but it sounded disused, as if she had not spoken for some time. "I simply wondered what he wished me to say in response."

"Aunt," Fitzwilliam scoffed, "you may not recall, but Darcy and Miss Bennet were abducted Thursday last. I would have thought that you, of all people, would be pleased to see he is returned."

"Why should his return matter to me? He is an ungrateful boy who has only ever tolerated me."

"Lady Catherine," Darcy began, moving forward as well and looking concerned, "while I have not always…"

"Do not pester me with platitudes and claims of affection you do not feel," she interrupted, leaning forward enough for them to see her face and infusing some strength into her voice. "My eyes have been opened to much these past days, not the least of which is that the people nearest me, those to whom I have shown the greatest generosity, all despise me."

"Anne's feelings regarding you should not be taken as indicative of everyone's," Fitzwilliam said quickly, before she could interrupt him.

"My daughter hates me," she said stiffly, as if she had been practicing saying the words without any emotion. "But she made it clear that although her feelings were the strongest, I am universally scorned and privately derided. Tell me she was wrong. Tell me that you love and honor me, that you do not roll your eyes behind my back and ignore my advice and advise my steward and staff to do so as well."

Neither gentleman could refute her claims, much to their shame.

"You are my nephews, but it is only because we are tied by blood that you tolerate me." Her energies seemed to wane then, and she leaned back into chair, her face disappearing into the shadows. "And, as my daughter so carefully pointed out, that is entirely my fault and no one else's."

"Lady Catherine," Darcy started, but his voice trailed away.

They were silent for several moments, but just as Fitzwilliam was about to make another attempt to offer comfort, a strange, contained mewling sound came from the shadowed chair.

"Anne… Anne… How could you leave me this way? Anne… Anne…"

Fitzwilliam and Darcy were both frozen in horror. The touch of a hand on each one's arm startled them.

"You gentlemen had best retire," Evans said, guiding them quietly from the room and closing the door to the parlor.

"But our aunt…"

"She has done this every night since Miss Anne went away," he explained, his pitying gaze on the closed doors. "No one can comfort her, and if she is not left alone, the grieving only winds higher and louder, flashing from self-recriminations to anger and back again in only a few moments. She will spend her sorrow in an hour or two, and then her maid will come and lead her to bed like a child."

"How horrid," Darcy said, his eyes haunted.

"We are for London tomorrow," Fitzwilliam said. "I will tell my father what has happened. Perhaps he can comfort her."

"She has always spoken of her brother with affection," Evans said, looking hopeful. "Thank you, sir. I have had a small supper sent to your rooms, as you requested."

The gentlemen thanked him and began making their way down the hallway, but their steps paused as the whimpering from the parlor shifted into a high, keening wail. Darcy swallowed deeply, his eyes wide. Fitzwilliam felt a chill run up his spine.

Had Lady Catherine brought this misery on herself? Probably. But for the first time in his life, Fitzwilliam realized that being responsible for one's own sorrows and deserving them might not be entirely the same thing. Could any human soul truly deserve such desolating misery?

By the time they reached their neighboring quarters in the guest wing, they could no longer hear anything but their own footsteps. They both stopped outside of their rooms.

"There is nothing we can do to help her," Darcy said blankly.

Fitzwilliam nodded. "She will always suffer this, but perhaps in time, that suffering will help her be the good person she always believed herself to be."

"Terrible pain can inspire change for the better," Darcy replied knowingly.

"Just so."

They bade one another goodnight, and Fitzwilliam breathed a sigh of relief as he entered his room, moving straight toward the steaming tray on the small side table. He felt guilty for it, but he could not help feeling even more relieved now than before that they would be away on the morrow too early to have to face Lady Catherine again.

As he collapsed into his bed a few minutes later, he found himself playing the past several days over and over again in his head. The story he had most feared would end unhappily had found the cleanest resolution of all. Darcy and Miss Bennet, despite their societal inequality and dangerous adventures, would be disgustingly happy together.

But all the other stories were bent. Smythe-Talmadge had most probably found his wife, but theirs would not be an easy forgiving on either side. Reg would live, but he had lost his love, his child, and his business. Lady Catherine remained financially solvent, but she had lost the only person she had ever truly loved, however poorly. Anne and her beloved were on their way to freedom and a new start, but she was a selfish, thoughtless child and he was at best incautious and unethical.

And what was the ending of his own story? He had successfully rescued Darcy and salvaged Miss Bennet's reputation, and he had done it all without sustaining any personal injury or financial setback. He had even finally, _unbelievably,_ fallen in love. But no matter which way he turned, that love could destroy him. If he pursued Mrs. Collins, he had little doubt he would eventually have success, but what sort of man would that make him, and what sort of woman would that make her? And if he did not, to what might his loneliness drive him?

His story was the most bent of all, he realized as he drifted into sleep. He was the only one yet to make his choice, to choose his own ending, yet he was already miserable. How much worse would it be once he had decided?


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: All right, y'all, here are the rules for reviews of this final chapter:_

 _1) Please don't tell me that Mr. Darcy is out-of-character. If you want to really character-analyze him, we all portray him incorrectly-in the text of P &P, he is exceptionally reserved and socially awkward in public but talkative almost to the point of excess once he is truly comfortable with someone. My guess is that his social awkwardness carries over even in private and that he drives Lizzy crazy half the time because he doesn't follow social cues well. So, you can hero-ize him in your way, and I'll do it in mine. _

_2) Please don't use an excess of profanity, no matter how tempted you might be. *shame-faced smile* I have the profanity filter on for reviews, so I won't really get the full impact of your wrath. Impress me with your creativity._

 _And before you ask, there will be a short epilogue posted on Saturday._

 _Disclaimer: It's pretty obvious by this point that I'm not Jane Austen, and I didn't write_ Pride and Prejudice. _I have neither her wit nor her gift for creating timeless characters. I am, however, eternally grateful to her for writing a story that has provided me a lifetime of entertainment._

Chapter 15

"And did it occur to neither of you," Mr. Bennet roared, "that I should have been informed of these events as they were taking place, whether or not you believed it might endanger us?"

Lizzy stood as straight as she could manage under her father's onslaught, gripping tightly to Mr. Darcy's tense forearm. Papa had been ranting for several minutes now, whipping the dandelions at the edge of the path with his walking stick, and although it was not quite the reaction she had expected, she could hardly blame him for being distraught. She wanted to wilt, to hide her face like a frightened child, but having Mr. Darcy by her side, providing real physical support as well as emotional, was giving her just enough courage to remain still.

"A letter, at least, would have prepared me to offer assistance!" her father continued. "Or a surreptitious visit after dark to see my brother Gardiner, who was only a few miles from you for nearly a week! Why did you not come to us? To me? Why did you not allow me to aid my own precious child in a time of such obvious need?"

"Mr. Bennet," Mr. Darcy answered, with evident effort at remaining calm, "we knew so little of our own situation that it seemed unwise to reach any farther than we absolutely had to for succor. I am sorry that it angers you, but we made the best decision we knew to make at the time."

"You believed me a doddering old fool!" her father argued, red-faced. "You thought me too poor, too old, and too unconnected to offer you any meaningful aid! Do not attempt to convince me otherwise! I know how you men think, you young, rich men who assume that everyone who has not been blessed with your resources is helpless. But there is some wisdom that comes with age, young man, and an extra level of care that I would have taken of my own daughter because of my love for her greater than any gentleman, no matter how wealthy or honor-bound, could ever exhibit."

Mr. Darcy straightened to his full, impressive height, having reached the end of his patience. "You may question the wisdom of our decisions, sir—I have wondered every day of the three weeks since our return to Kent what I might have done differently to better ensure Miss Bennet's safety—but you have no right to question my commitment to her protection. There is nothing in the world I prize so highly as her well-being!"

"Papa," Lizzy said, moving between them and standing before her father with her hands out in a plea, "We should have contacted you. I should have written or insisted on going to see Uncle Gardiner. I am sorry."

Some of her father's ire dissipated, as much out of exhaustion as in reaction to her words.

"I also… apologize," Mr. Darcy offered after a moment, although his stiffness partially undermined his attempt at humility. "I am a man used to making his own decisions. I rarely ask for help. But had we remained in London for any longer, I would have contacted Miss Bennet's uncle, and through him, yourself. I planned to go see him the very next Sunday."

Lizzy looked up at him with surprise. "You would have gone to him?"

"Yes," he replied, his eyes softening as he looked at her. "I had no wish for them to worry, and I thought perhaps a fresh mind dealing with our problem would have been useful."

She smiled at him, and he at her.

Her father opened his mouth, then closed it, frowning deeply. Finally, he exhaled in frustration. "I am angrier than I can express, yet my conscience will not allow me to continue voicing it. It is dreadfully unfair that because the pair of you have suffered so much trouble, I am made to feel like a villain for my justified ire. I am most displeased with your high-handedness, sir, but I… I am forced to also offer you my unending gratitude for remaining with my daughter in the midst of all these struggles, for watching over her when I could not."

Mr. Darcy nodded seriously. "Your reaction is quite fair, considering the circumstances, sir. And as for protecting Miss Bennet, it was a duty I was proud to perform."

"Are you certain that she is no longer in any danger?"

"I am perfectly safe, Papa," Lizzy replied, annoyed that she was being spoken about as if she were not present.

"The only remaining threat might be Reg," Mr. Darcy answered, "but I feel fairly secure in Smythe's assessment that Reg will spend his energies hunting his old friend or abandon the south entirely and attempt to run the operation in the north. That does not, of course, mean we should not be watchful. While in London these past weeks, I have hired investigators to learn as much about both men as they can that we might better track their movements."

"And you have no concern regarding Smythe himself? He did, after all, abduct you initially with the intention of ransoming you. What if he were to change his mind yet again?"

Mr. Darcy exchanged a quick glance with Lizzy, attempting to hide his surprise at her father's misunderstanding. He had appeared on the pathway that morning just as Lizzy and her father had been returning from their walk, so he had missed most of her recounting. He was unaware that she had left out all references that might reveal his reason for calling upon her at the parsonage the night of the abduction.

Mr. Darcy's unexpected arrival had brought her not only pleasure, given that she had not seen him since they had left Gracechurch Street one week before, but also relief. She had desired to wait until they could explain their story together, but her father had finally lost patience with her evasions, especially regarding the nature of her shocking engagement, and refused to allow her entrance back into Longbourn until she had told him everything.

Lizzy answered hurriedly. "Smythe had clearly thought better of it soon after taking us, Papa, since he allowed our escape. He would never have helped in my rescue otherwise. He is no threat."

Papa nodded gravely. "And what of Lizzy's reputation?"

"Lady Catherine's servants and tenants are, in my opinion, the greatest danger," Mr. Darcy replied. "Mrs. Collins is quite sure of her household's trustworthiness, as I am sure of my footmen and, of course, Bingley and Fitzwilliam. The Tanners will keep our secret, especially as I have taken the liberty of buying up a few key debts belonging to Roland Tanner—he has no wish to anger one of his major creditors. Smythe's men knew Miss Bennet's name but knew little of her connections, and I cannot imagine a reason for them to speak of such reprehensible activities. Lady Catherine has increased her servants' wages, even offering bonuses to those most aware of our troubles and Anne's defection, and most of the surrounding neighborhood believed that Miss Bennet spent those ten days ill in her room just like Miss Lucas, but there are still many tongues there that might wag. Such interesting news must be difficult to keep to oneself, no matter one's station."

Papa frowned. "So that is why you offered for her? To safeguard her reputation? I could hardly believe it when Gardiner wrote to me to ask my consent for your betrothal. I suppose I should not be surprised, given all I have just learned, that you would prove to be an honorable gentleman."

Then Papa turned to Lizzy with a grimace. "A respectable union is the most secure solution, my child, but I would never have wished a forced marriage upon you. I am sorry to have failed you in such a way."

"Papa," Lizzy said gently, "marrying will be wise for my protection from Society, but I choose to marry Mr. Darcy freely, according to my own will and not out of fear."

"Yes, I know," her father said, waving his hand dismissively. "You are very brave, Lizzy, and afraid of nothing. But I am quite well aware of your mutual dislike prior to all this business, and I would not imagine a few days in company together could be enough to entirely overcome it."

"Our mutual dislike?" Mr. Darcy asked, flabbergasted. "Sir, I…"

Lizzy spoke quickly, sending him a quelling glance. "Our acquaintance began with most unflattering behavior exhibited on both sides, but through the course of those days traveling and in London, we have corrected several misunderstandings between us and developed a healthy respect and appreciation for one another. Papa," she said, stepping forward and taking her father's hands, "I am not unhappy to be marrying Mr. Darcy. I am not even resigned. I have great hope that our union will bring me lifelong satisfaction."

Her father's surprise was evident. "Truly, my child?"

She nodded.

He turned to Mr. Darcy. "And you, sir? You will not spend the rest of your life mourning the more advantageous connection that this potential scandal stole from you?"

"No, Mr. Bennet." Mr. Darcy gazed at Lizzy, still a bit bemused. "I will spend the rest of my days thanking God for allowing me to share my life with a woman I admire, appreciate, and esteem."

Papa looked back and forth between them for several moments before finally heaving a sigh and squeezing Lizzy's hands. "I suppose then, given your feelings on the subject, that I can be content with the outcome of these troubles, especially considering how much more wretchedly it all might have ended. I gave my consent grudgingly three weeks ago, but now I offer it freely and with hope."

Lizzy hugged her father gratefully. "Thank you, Papa."

"Yes, yes. Although I do confess to also hoping that my conversation with Jane and Mr. Bingley in the next few weeks will prove far less distressing than this one."

Lizzy was too pleased and relieved, as much at finally having told her story as at receiving his consent, to allow the moment to pass without some wit, a commodity that had been entirely lacking for her of late. "Perhaps not. For all we are aware, Jane may have had some very great adventures whilst in London. She may only be waiting for the opportune moment to tell us. She may have foiled a theft of the crown jewels during an afternoon's stroll or offered a scrap to an urchin in the street who was really a foreign princess hiding from assassins."

"It is admittedly difficult to imagine the eldest Miss Bennet disguised as a laundress, surreptitiously sneaking a small, dirty child, however royal, through London's back alleys," Mr. Darcy chuckled.

"Yet it is equally impossible to imagine Lizzy dressed as a gentleman, locked in a cell in the hold of a packet in Dover," Mr. Bennet added seriously, his expression dark.

Lizzy leaned her head against his shoulder. "Papa, we must learn to laugh about it all. Otherwise, the memories will threaten to swallow us."

"I know. And I shall laugh about it before long, I am certain. Considering that I have known about it all for less than two hours, I believe I am adjusting rather well." Then he grimaced. "Possibly too well. I shall return to the quiet of my book room for a few hours and attempt to order my thoughts." He squeezed Lizzy's shoulders again, dropping a kiss on her forehead. "I thought I was relieved to see you when you returned to Longbourn a week ago, but that feeling was nothing akin to the pleasure I feel about it now."

He then turned to Mr. Darcy. "I thank you, sir, for all you have done for my daughter, for my family. I would say something such as 'if I can ever repay you,' but since I am already giving you my most precious possession," he said, glancing toward Lizzy, "I hope we can agree that I have given enough. You will promise to continue taking such care of her?"

"With all my heart, sir. I will use all that I am and all that I possess to keep her safe."

Mr. Bennet scowled at him suddenly. "Yes, I believe you truly mean that. I have been reviewing the marriage settlement documents you sent me—you must be a man of truly considerable resources to settle so much on her. My father's heart finds some comfort in that. However, the amount of loathing I feel for that stack of pages on my desk tells me that, to a father's heart, being comforted is not the same as being convinced. Yet I suppose I cannot rescind my consent. I assume you have a date in mind?"

"We want to marry soon, Papa," Lizzy said quietly. "While we do not want people to think us in a rush, it would be wisest to marry in the next few weeks."

"I purchased a special license," Mr. Darcy explained, "in case any rumors begin, but we are content to wait for the banns to be read."

"You want to marry in three weeks?" Mr. Bennet asked, alarmed.

"A month at the most," Lizzy confirmed. "We hope that will be a long enough time for Society to attribute the short engagement to the whims of a wealthy man who wishes to spend the summer at his estate instead of to some indiscretion."

Mr. Bennet put his hand to his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his spectacles. "I must go to my book room. I need time to think. Do _not_ consider this permission to marry in four weeks. The wedding date is yet to be determined."

He turned and began to walk away, lopping the heads of off several flowers with his walking stick as he passed, but he paused after a few steps and spun back. "I suppose, given the circumstances, that insisting on a chaperone for the pair of you would be rather like blowing out a candle after it has already set the drapes on fire. And after all, once your mother learns that your illustrious future husband has returned to the neighborhood, she will take care of the business quite assiduously." He smiled then a little mischievously. "I suspect I will take great pleasure in watching her make you both wretchedly uncomfortable for the next few weeks. Therefore, you may consider this quiet morning, before you announce your presence, as a gift to apologize for my coming enjoyment. Do not abuse my generosity."

Lizzy and Mr. Darcy remained quite still, watching him until he had disappeared around a curve in the path.

"Well," Lizzy said, turning to face Mr. Darcy with a sort of eager awkwardness.

"Well," he repeated, his gaze centered on her face.

"Oh, I am so glad that is finally over!" Lizzy cried feelingly.

"As am I." He motioned toward a nearby stone bench questioningly.

Lizzy glanced down the familiar walking path, the shrubbery still casting a wide shadow in the morning light, and shook her head. She pointed instead toward a narrow side path that led toward a copse of trees slightly uphill from them. He nodded, and they moved up the hill arm-in-arm, both of them gazing toward the upper-story windows of Longbourn just visible over the tree-tops.

Lizzy marveled at the depth of comfort such a simple closeness could engender. The week since her departure from Gracechurch Street had been a long one, full of pleasure in reuniting with all her family again but also with a pervasive sense of loneliness, as if something essential were still missing. From the warmth inside her chest, it was obvious that the last vital piece was the man walking beside her.

A kind of giddiness filled her as she imagined the days, months, and years ahead, the thousands of times the two of them would walk in just such a way along wooded paths, into ballrooms and dining rooms and parlors. She had never imagined that the thought of such a small thing could arouse such a feeling of anticipation.

"I have missed you, Elizabeth," Mr. Darcy said quietly as they entered the small grove.

"And I you, sir," she replied with feeling. "I do not think I even realized how much until you appeared behind us this morning and I felt as if the sun had just come out."

"My timing, it would seem, was quite impeccable. I arrived at Netherfield too late last night to join Bingley here for supper, so I rode out early this morning in hopes that you might be wandering somewhere. I know you had intended to wait for my arrival before speaking to your father of our abduction, but I assume a week of keeping the truth from him had proven unendurable to your candid nature."

"It was truly wretched," Lizzy laughed. "He and Jane have both noticed my evasions and grown impatient with my promises of later explanations. Luckily, Jane has had Mr. Bingley here to distract her, but Papa has been relentless."

"Will you tell your sister now that your father knows?"

"I am still undecided. She will be so pained by it all. Perhaps it will be best to wait until after she and Mr. Bingley are married, that both he and I might provide her comfort. He is planning on proposing soon, is he not?"

"Indeed. He believed he was being thoughtful by allowing our engagement to receive its due attention, but I assured him this morning that his and your sister's impending happiness would only increase our pleasure during this period. He intends to ask her at his first opportunity."

"Oh, I am so glad!"

They stopped in the center of the grove, both watching one another from the side. It was odd enough to be together once again, but it was even stranger to be entirely alone, a circumstance they had not enjoyed since their short stroll through the park in Islington nearly four weeks before.

Finally, Mr. Darcy gestured toward a stump that had been mostly sheltered from the recent rain, and Lizzy, not knowing what else to do, nodded and allowed him to seat her there. He remained standing, backing away a few paces before turning to look at her. She missed his nearness more than she should.

"I hope you were able to take care of all those affairs you named as the reason you could not follow me to Hertfordshire immediately," Lizzy said, turning her nose up in the air haughtily.

He smiled at her indulgently. "Many of them, yes, although my investigation into the state of Rosings's finances continues. My man is attempting to make certain that the money Anne stole from the estate comes only from her dowry, but he is slowed by his efforts to deal with the shoddy mortgages. Every day I become more thankful for Mrs. Collins's presence of mind in retrieving the stolen money from my cousin—Lady Catherine could never have recovered the estate."

"Has there been any word of Miss de Bourgh?"

"None, although I cannot say I have put much energy into inquiry. I wish her well, I suppose, but I cannot hope for her return, not even for Lady Catherine's sake."

"No, nor I."

"I did, however," he said with a small, bewildered smile, "receive word from someone else."

He withdrew a long, narrow box from his coat pocket and set it in Lizzy's hand. She opened it and, after a moment of shock, released a loud laugh. Inside it lay two silver-handled daggers, one a boot knife and the other of similar shape but on a smaller scale and with a strange attachment on the back of its sheath. The scrollwork was quite cunning, making the weapons as attractive as they were useful.

"The note with the package said only, 'A gift in early expectation of your upcoming nuptials. Use them wisely, and congratulations. Regards, An Interested Party.' However, another page was folded just under the lid when I opened the box." He withdrew a small sheet and placed it in her hand. "It was addressed to you, so I have not yet read its contents.'"

Lizzy unfolded the thin scrap.

"Miss B,

"I must hurry if this note is not to be noticed. You saved G's life, and in doing so, you saved my own as well! Thank you a thousand times! G told me all about your rescue and his dealings with you, and although G does not care, I cannot rest at his lack of truthfulness with you. You must think him a fool for claiming to have kidnapped you in the name of love. He confessed to me that, to his shame, his initial intention was, indeed, to extract a ransom from your beloved. He was desperate for a few final pounds to make the total he needed to purchase our new home on the Continent, and Mr. D presented an immediate solution, especially since G feared some of the other debts owed to him might not have been paid. However, as he made his collections on your route to Dover, he discovered that he had more than expected. Only then did his conscience convince him to make possible your escape. I am pleased for us all that he did right, that he intends to be entirely honest in our new life, but I feel we cannot move forward in truth without leaving truth behind us.

"I wish you great happiness in your future life. All is not well between myself and G, but I have hope that someday it will be. Honesty will, I believe, be the best first step.

"With gratitude,

"T.T."

Lizzy handed the note to Mr. Darcy, who read it with a frown. Once he had finished, he looked up at her. "I find myself oddly relieved. Of the many strange things about our adventure, one of the most difficult to reconcile was that after all our fear and uncertainty, it had only been a ruse to bring us together."

"I agree," Lizzy said. "I had been left feeling so silly for having feared Smythe. I am glad to know my apprehension was justified. I am also, of course, terribly glad that his conscience prevailed. Imagine what might have happened had we been forced to cross to France!"

Mr. Darcy nodded gravely, his gaze troubled. "That is not a thought I like to contemplate."

"And I suppose this package relieves my mind in more than one way. Mr. and Mrs. Talmadge are together and working toward happiness. I do hope they find it!"

"As do I. I believe this is an encouraging sign."

"Indeed." Then she frowned down at the smaller knife. "These are truly beautiful weapons, but I confess that I do not understand the attachment on the back of this one. Yours goes in your boot, but mine…"

Mr. Darcy colored slightly, but his eyes twinkled as he answered, "I know little of such things, but I believe it attaches to the… uh… up at the top of the… stocking."

Lizzy blushed as well, the method quite obvious now that she knew it was to tie to a garter. "Ah. How clever."

She slipped the knife and note into the pocket of her coat and returned the box to him. "I must admit that I hope I never have occasion to use it."

He did not step back away, but instead leaned beside her on the edge of the stump. "Yes, but I will feel comfort knowing we are both better prepared for whatever may come."

"I suppose kidnappings are not a regular occurrence around Pemberley?"

"No," he chuckled. "And we have seen no gypsies in our woods for at least twenty years."

"Ah, well. I shall just have to adjust to the monotony of safety and security."

"Have you developed a taste for adventure then?" he teased. "Need I fear a return to piracy in your future to stave off discontent?"

"I did grow quite fond of those loose sailor's trousers."

"Yes, so did I."

Lizzy smiled for a moment before it occurred to her that he had only worn trousers for a few hours of their escapade, for a single afternoon in Dover. Had he meant he had grown fond of hers? She gazed up at him in surprise, and he smirked at her.

Lizzy laughed aloud, delighted. "How I ever thought you lacked a sense of humor, I cannot imagine! You can be quite wicked."

"You have no idea," he replied, his gaze rolling over her figure quickly before flicking away from her.

A warm tingling spread through Lizzy, although she did not entirely understand why. She looked away as well, somehow too aware of his proximity to keep watching him.

"Georgiana wishes me to offer greetings to you on her behalf. She is very much looking forward to seeing you again at the wedding. She enjoyed getting to know you in London—you are practically the only thing she wishes to discuss these days. She asked whether I thought you would consider writing to her in the interim, and I offered my opinion that you would, so she sent you a letter—it is on my desk at Netherfield—but she wanted me to make absolutely certain of your willingness before presenting it to you in case you were reluctant."

"Of course, I would be delighted to write to her!" Lizzy laughed. "She is a charming girl, even in her shyness. Why would she imagine I would be unwilling?"

"She did not always require so much reassurance," Mr. Darcy said with a sigh. "I have great hope that having you as a sister will help return much of her lost confidence."

"I will do all I can," Lizzy said, reaching out to cover his hand with hers. "But mostly I suspect it will just require time."

"I know." He squeezed her hand.

"One of the advantages of waiting a full month for a wedding would be a lack of obligation to invite any of the officers. They are to remove to Brighton in three weeks. That would, I imagine, be beneficial for Georgiana's peace of mind."

"Yes, I would much rather have Wickham out of the county before Georgiana enters it. Have you seen him since your return?"

"We have been in company together," Lizzy replied with a twist of her mouth. "It is remarkable the way he believes that a few smiles and compliments can revive his intimacy with the young ladies of the neighborhood, regardless of him having cheerfully abandoned our friendships during his pursuit of poor Miss King's twenty-thousand pounds. Unfortunately, he has found at least one of those friendships hopelessly spoilt. Needless to say, once he heard of our betrothal, his attentions toward me and my family diminished significantly. Lydia is quite put out with me, that I would choose you over 'poor, dear Mr. Wickham.'"

"The fact that he would even try speaks of his arrogance," Mr. Darcy said through gritted teeth. "Have you warned your sisters about him?"

"I have not," Lizzy replied. "I believe his removal from the neighborhood is soon enough that they are in little danger. I did tell Jane some of his history—none in connection with your sister—and we agreed that we have no wish to make him desperate. Lydia received an invitation just yesterday from Mrs. Forster to accompany her to Brighton, and were she to go, I would have considered warning her, but Mama has forbidden it. Our wedding festivities, complete with all your wealthy, influential cousins and friends attending, are much more appealing to Mama now than any redcoats."

"Did you happen to mention to your mother that my family circle is rather small, or that only two or three of my closest friends are invited, none of whom are single besides Bingley?"

"Hmm. As a matter of fact, I did not."

He laughed, raising her hand to his mouth and kissing the back of her glove.

"But what about the colonel? He is single and eligible, even if he would never consider any of my sisters."

Mr. Darcy frowned. "Fitzwilliam came to me just yesterday, right before I was to depart. He apologized most profusely, but it would seem that he has been given command of a new regiment. He is to depart for Spain within the next week."

"Oh!" Lizzy felt her disappointment keenly. "How wretched! I am of course saddened that he will not be able to attend, especially given how materially our union has resulted from his courage and effort, but that is nothing to my concern over the danger he will be facing in Spain. How I shall worry for him."

"His mother is quite distraught. She was prepared to go to Wellington himself with her complaint, but Fitzwilliam calmed her, claiming to be quite gratified to receive a more active command. He says he has grown bored with London."

"Oh. I suppose I am glad he is content."

"Yes, that is the exact word he used. He is 'content.'"

They sat together quietly for several moments.

"At least, with him gone, we need not worry about anyone offering a toast during the wedding breakfast regarding secrets we would rather not have shared," Mr. Darcy said lightly.

Lizzy giggled. "He would never."

"No," Mr. Darcy chuckled, "but he would say just enough to make us both nervous, I am certain."

They laughed for another moment then quieted, both thoughtful again.

"It is so difficult," Lizzy said quietly, "to believe that only four-and-one-half weeks ago, I was walking through a grove at Rosings Park, wondering to myself whether a quiet visit to Charlotte's home was going to be the most exciting thing that ever happened in my life. How much has changed since then! My life is altogether new—my outlook, my understanding, my expectations, and even my heart have shifted so much that I feel like a different creature from the young woman I was then."

"I feel the same about myself," Mr. Darcy replied with equal seriousness. "I can hardly recognize the man who probably walked out deliberately that fine morning to chance upon you on your stroll. I will admit that I hope I never meet that fellow again."

"He was not so very awful," Lizzy laughed gently.

"'I had not known you a month,'" Mr. Darcy quoted grimly, "'before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.' You may pretend otherwise now, for the sake of my pride, but I know how you saw me then, and you were correct."

"Please do not quote my horrible words back to me!" Lizzy cried, gripping his hand more tightly. "I can hardly bear the memory of them! We are both different now, and it will be in the interest of our future felicity if we choose to forget the awful things we both said and did."

"Very well. I shall try. But I must ask, while on this topic, why you would not let me disabuse your father of the notion that I had disliked you for all those months in Hertfordshire? I am cautious of my privacy, but would not your father find comfort, even satisfaction, in the knowledge that my regard for you has endured for several months now?"

"I suppose it might," Lizzy answered slowly, trying not to blush again, "but it was not my desire for him to know that our union is as much or more of a product of our mutual affection as it is one of respect, admiration, and convenience."

"You do not wish him to know that I am in love with you?" Mr. Darcy asked, obviously confused.

"Not just yet. I suppose it will be obvious soon enough, as he observes us together more frequently, but I would keep my family ignorant of it as long as possible."

"Might I ask the reason?"

Lizzy drew in a deep breath, attempting to summon courage enough to answer truthfully. Finally, only able to raise her eyes to his cravat, she answered, "Because they will be less cautious of keeping us separated and insisting on constant chaperonage if they do not know we are in love, if they believe our affections are, as yet, sensible and platonic."

Mr. Darcy straightened, and Lizzy felt the loss of his hand, his arm pressed against hers. She bit her lip, inclined to be injured by the perceived rejection yet reminding herself that she was not always good at understanding his reactions.

"I am sorry if I have offended you, sir," she rushed on. "I know it is in opposition to all proprieties, even unmaidenly, to express so open an enjoyment of the time we spend alone, but I know you abhor disguise, and these are my honest thoughts."

"Elizabeth…" Mr. Darcy began tentatively.

Lizzy pressed on, afraid to stop speaking. "I enjoy your discourse, your company, anytime we are together, but I feel that perhaps I was spoilt by the time we spent alone, or as good as alone, during our days with Smythe and the Tanner family. I do not always want to share you."

"Elizabeth."

"I very much resent that we must spend so much of the coming weeks without any private conversation. I look forward to our marriage for many reasons, but one of the greatest is the idea of spending a vast deal of time in your company and only yours."

"Elizabeth!"

Lizzy was surprised into meeting his gaze by his sharp tone. "Sir?"

He was as tense as a tightened bowstring, and his eyes were wide and dark. "You just said that _we_ are in love."

She frowned. "Yes, sir."

"Are you in love with me?"

"Of course!"

Why did he appear so affected by the knowledge? He had known her feelings for weeks now… had he not?

He reached for her hands, raising them both to his lips. "I had believed, hoped that you would not have agreed to our marriage if your affections were still tentative, but I feared that perhaps the intense physical connection between us had overridden your lingering uncertainties…"

"I told you already, though, I am sure of it!" she cried.

He shook his head, although his eyes remained locked on hers. "No. You told me that you care for me, that you worry for me, that you accept and admire me, but you have made no mention of love. Believe me, I would have remembered it."

Lizzy had spent nearly three weeks sure of her feelings, finding strength and courage from them even in the midst of frustration and loneliness, and yet he had spent all that time uncertain of her?

"Mr. Darcy," she said, her voice tight with suppressed emotion, "I am quite hopelessly, madly, unequivocally in love with you. You are, without a doubt, the best man I have ever known, and I believe there could not possibly be any woman in the world who could love you more fully than I do."

Before a full second had passed after she finished her declaration, Mr. Darcy had erased the distance between them and taken her in his arms, covering her lips with his in a searing, possessive kiss that made Lizzy once again revise all her ideas about the nature of kissing in general. By the time he pulled back, every inch of her skin was tingling, and her heart was racing so hard that she thought he must be able to hear it.

"I warned you," he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers, "that I would find it difficult to maintain my distance from you. Already I had to spend two weeks under the watchful eyes of your relations, constantly reminding myself that it was inappropriate to be touching you all the time, that it would not be wise to tug you into an alcove you were passing and kiss you senseless no matter how much I longed to do so.

"But now, knowing that you love me, knowing that you long for the time we spend together as much as I do, I must spend the next month barely capable of reminding myself that neither of your parents would be understanding if I were to be discovered actively compromising you in their back parlor."

"Looking at it honestly," Lizzy said wickedly, "you have already compromised me. You did, after all, help me undress once. And we have already slept side-by-side."

"Do not remind me," he groaned, pulling her more tightly against his side. "That was the longest, most wretched, most wonderful night of my life thus far. To have you so near me and yet so far away was heavenly torture."

"I was rather enamored of it myself," she teased, delighted at the way his fingers convulsively tightened on her waist as she spoke.

He kissed her again, hard and long. "You are determined to leave me completely incapable of behaving as a gentleman."

"No," she giggled. "I have great faith in your sense of honor. And, I suppose, in my parents' abilities as chaperones." She sobered then, taking off her gloves then raising her hands to cup his face. "I am simply determined to have you know, in these few moments that are ours before we are forced to behave ourselves again, that I am as eager for our wedding as you are, for our life together to begin."

He drew one of her hands down to cover his mouth, kissing her fingers reverently. "You have no idea how much it means to know that."

"I have some," she laughed. Then she jumped to her feet, pulling suddenly from his embrace. "But I suppose we have established our mutual understanding well enough for now. I should return to the house, as I promised Jane I will always be present when Mr. Bingley calls, and he has been arriving earlier and earlier each morning."

Lizzy stood very primly, the picture of a perfectly proprietous young lady, and adjusted her bonnet.

"You want to return to the house?" Mr. Darcy had risen as well but was still standing at the stump, watching her intently. "Bingley has been arriving early, he told me, but he still never wakes before nine o'clock, and it is only eight-thirty now."

"But, sir," Lizzy answered with dramatically widened eyes, "he is to be accompanied today by another gentleman, a terribly handsome one who, I believe, holds me in some affection. I must have time to break my fast before his arrival and have my hair dressed more becomingly, and Mama will insist that I change my gown once she learns that he is coming. She will probably," Lizzy added in a conspiratorial whisper, "even encourage me to allow my lace to slip, that I might not lose his interest, although I would never employ such crude tactics simply to win his favor."

Mr. Darcy began moving slowly toward her, smirking again. "I do not believe I like the idea of you attempting to ensnare this poor, unsuspecting gentleman so soon after meeting me alone in the trees. Your color is heightened already, after your morning's exercise, and it will be more so after the manner in which I plan to offer my farewell. He will be entirely powerless to resist you, and where will that leave me?"

"Can I not have both of you?" Lizzy asked archly, backing away as he continued moving steadily toward her. "The regal, reserved gentlemen who may be even now awaiting me in the sitting room, and the devilishly good-looking one who engages in fisticuffs with gambling rogues, teases and flirts with me, and offers to compromise me in my mother's back parlor? Oh!"

Lizzy was surprised to find herself backed into the trunk of a tall maple tree, one of those she and her pirating friends had loved to climb as children. She had never before felt like less of a child, however, as she did when she looked up into Mr. Darcy's eyes as he leaned over her, one hand on the trunk of the tree.

"I suppose," he said, reaching out slowly to play with a lock of hair that had escaped the haphazard twist under her bonnet, "that this assiduously upright and appropriate gentleman and I might be able to come to some sort of agreement. I will do my best to stay out of his way in public, as long as he and his proprieties remain at a reasonable distance when you and I are alone together."

Lizzy swallowed heavily as he released her hair and let his fingers slide lightly along her jaw. "That seems a most reasonable negotiation."

Mr. Darcy made a noise of agreement, but he continued his light stroking around her face, across her cheeks, and down the length of her neck.

"You are deliberately unsettling me, sir," Lizzy remarked breathlessly.

"You are teasing me. Again. I thought it only fair to finally be clear about the effect that teasing has."

"It turns you into a rake?"

He chuckled. "No, Elizabeth, for that would imply I have interest in behaving this way with others. I told you once already—only you can waken me this way."

Lizzy felt all the compliment of that statement, all the power and excitement and danger of it. "I cannot decide whether that is more frightening or intriguing."

He laughed loudly then bent to kiss her. This kiss began as reassuringly tender, but it transitioned quickly into something new, something slow and heated and wonderful.

His lips still moving across hers, he murmured, "Do you still feel an urgent need to return to the house?"

She raised her hands and linked them at the back of his neck. "Absolutely urgent—you are even more dangerous than I thought. And I will give that urgency the attention it deserves any moment now, I am certain."

She felt his delighted laugh more than heard it as he resumed their kiss, only heightening her heady, reckless joy. She was full to brimming suddenly with not only love, desire, and contentment, but with a deep and abiding sense of gratitude for whatever twist of fate had brought her to this moment, to this man, in such an unlikely fashion.

She had many letters of gratitude to write, not just to her childhood friends who had prepared her to be of some use in her own rescue, or to Charlotte or Colonel Fitzwilliam or Mr. Bingley for their assistance, but also to Mr. Talmadge, Reg, and even Miss de Bourgh, whose lives and actions had led her here. And perhaps, most fundamentally, to Mr. Collins, for being too great of a coward to confess his debts to his wife. Imagine if he had paid them and Mr. Darcy had left Hunsford's parlor that night! Would they ever have found one another and this passionate, incredible happiness?

She drew impossibly closer to him, which seemed to disturb him in no way whatsoever, and proceeded to express the intensity of her emotions in the most immediately available manner.

It was quite some time later when Lizzy was seen entering Longbourn wearing a contented smile, rather closer to Mr. Bingley's expected arrival time than her mother might have wished, and if she appeared somewhat flushed, everyone attributed it to nothing more than her morning exercise. Everyone, that is, except the rather polite and reserved gentleman who was introduced into the parlor less than an hour later. He knew better.

* * *

"Are you certain about this, Fitzwilliam?" Major General Wallace Cartwright asked, his normally-jovial face quite serious.

"That is the twenty-fifth time you have asked me that, sir," Fitzwilliam answered less cheerfully than he had intended. "I am certain."

The man shook his head, making his jowls wobble. "Forgive me—I just do not understand. You have a posting most officers dream about—the London office, training recruits, no travel or active combat—yet you want to give it up with barely any explanation whatsoever, only that you have grown 'restless.' You cannot blame me for questioning you."

"I know, sir," Fitzwilliam sighed, rising from his chair and crossing to the window. The view onto the streets of London was familiar, and these days, everything familiar was unwelcome. He turned back to his old friend. "My reasoning is quite personal and difficult to explain. Can you not simply trust that I know what I am doing?"

"You have requested active combat duty. I should assign you to Bedlam instead of the Iberian Peninsula."

"Please, sir."

Cartwright waved a hand, dismissing his words. "No, no—no need to beg. I have already received permission from the top—Wellington is delighted with any experienced commanders interested in returning to the battlefield—and the paperwork is finished. All I need now is your signature." He leaned forward then over his desk, his ample middle pressing against the edge. "Your signature and a reason."

Fitzwilliam's mind spun back over the past few weeks, especially over the torturous three weeks since returning to London from Kent the final time. He had been to visit the Gardiners' surprisingly elegant home in Cheapside a few times with Darcy. He had spent evenings with Darcy and Georgiana. He had dined with his parents and his brother's family. He had visited his club, appeared at a few evening parties, and even attended a ball. He had filled every waking moment with the requirements of life in London at the end of the Season and the enjoyments that had always made that life so appealing.

Yet none of it had managed to wipe thoughts of Mrs. Collins from his mind, not for a single instant. He had fallen in love, and now that he was removed from her, that love was eating him alive. It was sapping the flavor from his food, draining the beauty out of stunning debutantes and willing women-of-the-night alike, and washing the color from every window box and fluttering bird he passed.

He had, therefore, three choices.

First, he could remain in London living this life he had loved and watching it grow more empty and childish by the day, hoping that at some point, his heart would mend and he would find satisfaction again. It might work, although he had little faith in his ability to be so persistently self-sacrificing. This choice, he had finally realized, had about ten-to-one odds of failure.

Second, he could accept the inevitability of his fate, follow his father to Kent to pretend concern for Lady Catherine, and throw himself on the mercy of Mrs. Collins, ending either by gaining his desire and seducing her into accepting his attentions or by having her cast him from her life in miserable disgust and disappointment. The odds of this choice were harder to figure, given that the possible results were divided and so dependent on outside factors, but upon deep and honest reflection, he had accepted that the possibility of both him and Mrs. Collins being marginally happy in the long run was small. He had assigned this one odds of forty-to-one.

Or third, he could leave. He could take himself as far from both those other possibilities as he could get, surround himself with the relentless danger and uncertainty of a battlefield, the miserable physical conditions, and the constant companionship of death, and attempt to forget. This choice, however grim, had odds of five-to-one, or maybe even four-to-one.

And therefore, in the end, it was the only choice he could make.

"General," Fitzwilliam said quietly, "I can offer you a single reason. If I am in Spain, I have faith in my ability to remain a good man. But if I stay in England, I fear… I have reason to fear that I might not. So I wish to go, and if I return, it will be God's will."

Cartwright watched him for several moments, his deep-set, intelligent eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, making the wood beneath him creak disconsolately. "If you were any other man, Fitzwilliam, that would not be enough. But from you… well, I am still not happy about it, but if you say you must go, then I will trust you."

He pushed the paper across the desk, and Fitzwilliam stood, inking the quill and signing his name with little flourish. Then he straightened. "Thank you, General."

"Please do not thank me. I cannot accept gratitude for sending you into the mouth of Hell." He rose slowly to his feet, the chair squeaking its relief, and offered his hand. "Godspeed, Fitzwilliam."

As Fitzwilliam emerged from the office, he felt real hope, however skewed and unfocused, for the first time in weeks. War was brutal, cold and dark, and yet somehow, his conscience finally appeased, he was at peace.

His story might not end happily, but unlike many of the other characters in this strange tale, it would end well.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: And finally, we're here. I have to admit to feeling overwhelming relief at posting this final chapter-I was unprepared for how much this story and the response to it would take out of me. Of course I'm a little sad, just like always when I finish a story, but I'm really ready to cut the apron strings here and let this one venture into the world on its own. Thank you to everyone who followed/favorited/reviewed, and even to those who didn't-I'm guiltier than most of reading without leaving a response. To those who loved every word, I offer profound thanks for keeping me going even when I got discouraged. For those who had fun but also made me rethink portions and address mistakes, I offer chagrinned but sincere gratitude. Accepting criticism is hard for me, but it makes me a healthier person and, hopefully someday, a better writer. And to those who stuck all the way through this but didn't love it, I offer a sheepish smile and a shrug. If nothing else, at least you have to admit that I made regular updates and changed my status to "complete."_

 _In terms of the future, I will admit that I've had a new idea in the last week or so, one I think could be really fun, but it'll probably be several months before I'd be willing to post it. If you're interested, Author Alert me, or just keep your eyes open... in a year or so._

 _This is Babsy, signing off._

 _Disclaimer: I am not Jane Austen, and good gravy, aren't we all grateful for that? That would make me extremely old and decrepit. And I would have to spend my life answering press questions about how I feel about Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and trying to keep my answers polite._

Epilogue

Even as Lizzy awakened, jarred loose from her dreaming by a particularly rough section of road, she was already chagrinned. She straightened, reaching up to right her hair and grimacing at the loose pins she discovered. "Oh, Charlotte, I am sorry. You know what I am like in carriages."

Charlotte, lounging against the back of the opposite seat, looked up from her book and smiled. "I expected nothing else. Placing you inside a carriage is like dosing you with a sleeping draught. Ms. Radcliffe and I have been quite content."

Charlotte returned to her book as Lizzy attempted to awaken her limbs without jostling her daughter's head, which was cradled in her lap. Lizzy bent forward slightly to relax a twinge in her back, and the pendant she wore on a long chain around her neck swung forward and tapped the little girl on the cheek. Lizzy yanked it away then sat back, chuckling fondly to herself. Poor Cynthia had been run nearly ragged by her older cousins during their unexpectedly long visit to Jane's family. Combine that with her rightly-inherited somnolence in carriages, and she had been profoundly asleep for most of their four-hour journey.

Lizzy gazed down at her daughter, identifying once again the features the two of them shared: the wide eyes and long lashes, the rounded cheeks, and the ears that pressed back nearly against her head. It was, however, the traits inherited from her father that Lizzy found the most endearing: the dark, loose curls, the slow, bright smile, and the tendency toward solemnity. Everything in life was serious to Cynthia, but when one could inspire her laughter, it felt as if one had just been showered in gold.

"You are frowning again, Lizzy," Charlotte said without raising her eyes from her book. "'Tis not an expression that comes naturally to you."

Lizzy huffed a short laugh. "Forgive me, then, for disturbing your sense of equanimity."

Charlotte straightened as she closed her book decisively and gazed across the carriage at her friend. "I am, in my way, expressing my concern for you, and you well know it. Now are you going to tell me what is bothering you, or am I going to have to bribe Brandow to get us lost until you submit?"

Lizzy looked up at her friend, who was watching her with a single raised eyebrow. The lavender of Charlotte's half-mourning gown was surprisingly complimentary to her coloring, and Jane's maid had done her hair very fashionably that morning, much more so than Charlotte would normally have allowed. She was quite lovely, really, this friend who had always called herself plain.

Lizzy shook her head, smiling in spite of herself. "Brandow would never do it. He is very loyal to me, you know."

"Yes, yes, your coachman adores you, just like every other one of the Pemberley staff. You will not distract me. Whatever is the matter these past few days?"

"You will not like the answer." At Charlotte's unimpressed glare, Lizzy continued reluctantly, "I am worried about _you_ , Charlotte."

Charlotte's face went slack with surprise. "Why on earth are you worried about me?"

Lizzy shifted uncomfortably, and not just with the lingering stiffness of sleeping in a rumbling carriage. "'Tis only that… oh, dear, it is really none of my business, and yet…"

"Please just say it. You know how I grow impatient with dissembling."

"Very well. Mr. Collins died one year ago—one year and two days ago, to be exact—and all week I have been worrying, realizing what a terrible friend I have been to you these past weeks since you came to stay with us. I have blithely accepted your equanimity. You do not seem sad or concerned about the future, and so I have assumed all is well within you. Yet it has occurred to me these past three or four days that you may be feeling greater sorrow or uncertainty than you demonstrate, and I have been a terrible friend not to have asked."

Charlotte sighed, her expression relieved. "You can be very silly sometimes, Lizzy."

"And you can be so very impassive!" Lizzy retorted. "I simply wish to know that all is truly well within you. Is that so wrong?"

"You are not silly for worrying. You are silly for not just asking me this week."

"Well, I am asking you now. Are you well, Charlotte? Are you ready for your mourning to be over?"

Charlotte looked thoughtfully at the book in her hand. "Mr. Collins died a year and two days ago. At the time, I could not imagine what might occur next in my life. I could only plan one day in advance. I would never have guessed then how different my life would be now. Yes, I am ready to move out of mourning. I have arrived at that transition when everyone expects the widow to have fully recovered yet they are still too cautious to speak much of the former spouse. It will be easier, I hope, when no one fears I am still suffering."

"You are not suffering, though, are you?"

Charlotte sighed. "Should I be? Mr. Collins and I were married for above seven years. I watched over him, cared for him, obeyed him to the best of my ability, and found contentment, but I never claimed to love him. I miss him sometimes, but only when I see how much Freddy misses him. He was a very mediocre husband, Lizzy, but he was an excellent father to a small child. He played with Freddy and allowed him to accompany him on all sorts of errands, even when he was very small. To be sure, he was still quite young when Mr. Collins became ill, but Freddy still has such fond memories of his father reading to him, even from his sickbed.

"I miss him for Freddy's sake, but for myself…" She tapped her fingers on the book cover absently. "I am simply relieved."

"He was ill for a long time," Lizzy offered. "It would be natural to experience some relief at his passing."

"You think better of me than I deserve. I am pleased not to be caring for a sick man anymore, but I am even more pleased to be free. I live in my father's house again, where no one attempts to rule me or cajole me or insist upon anything. I am free to visit my dear friend for months at a time if I so choose. The pension provided by the church is enough for Freddy and I, especially since we need not pay for a home. Papa and your father have between them compromised regarding who shall pay for Freddy's education. In short, I have been richly blessed, and I feel every ounce of that blessing, I assure you. I would never have wished Mr. Collins dead, but I cannot be sorry for it, either."

Lizzy was struck by Charlotte's truth. "But are you not lonely sometimes? Mr. Collins was at least someone with whom you could sit and talk in the evening."

"We did talk sometimes," Charlotte acknowledged, "but the conversations were rarely meaningful, which cannot surprise you. Lizzy, loneliness has been my constant companion for many years—my marriage did not change that. Only Freddy ever did, and him I have still."

"Do you regret marrying Mr. Collins then?"

"How could I? For if I had not, I would not have Freddy."

Lizzy nodded, troubled by Charlotte's admissions. She had always seemed so content, just as she had promised she would be before her marriage ever began, but Lizzy would give almost anything to see her friend truly, blissfully happy.

"I suppose," Charlotte said quietly as the carriage wheels splashed through the high-running creek that Lizzy recognized as a sign that they were nearing Pemberley, "that the answer to your question is yes, I am well. I only wish I knew whether it was wrong for me to feel so."

They were quiet for the last few minutes of the drive. As the carriage rumbled to a stop near the back door of the house, the one leading in from the courtyard, Lizzy smiled at the sight of Matthew, Pemberley's head footman, dashing through the door.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Darcy, Mrs. Collins," he smiled, opening the carriage door. "I'll alert the household at once to your arrival."

"There is no need, Matthew. I should like to surprise my family, I think. But I would appreciate your carrying this dear little burden up to the nursery."

She handed Cynthia's still form into his arms, marveling that at age four she could still sleep so deeply.

"Would you let Hannah and Marjorie know that we have arrived but that we will greet the children before retiring to refresh ourselves?"

"Very good, madam."

"Have you seen the boys recently?" Charlotte asked as he handed her out after Lizzy.

"I believe all the gentlemen of the house are on the east lawn, madam, playing at war."

Charlotte and Lizzy exchanged a long-suffering look then linked arms as they moved up the path that would take them around to the far side of the house. They were in the midst of a cheerful discussion of the Bingleys' eldest and most precocious daughter as they rounded the final curve in the path, but they both paused when they realized there were no bodies in sight.

"Perhaps they have moved indoors," Charlotte said.

"That would surprise me on such a fine day, especially after all the rain… Oh my!"

Lizzy had been startled by a shout from the bush only a few steps behind her. "Scouts have been spotted, sir! They are not wearing colors—they may be enemies!"

Two heads raised behind a hedge on the far end of the lawn, and a masculine voice called back, "I suspect they are our spies returning! Escort them back to the barracks, Corporal, but keep them under guard until I can see to them personally!"

A small body darted out from the near bush and wrapped itself around Lizzy's legs. "Hello, Mother!"

Lizzy laughed, bending over to kiss her son's cheek. He, too, had inherited his father's dark curls, but his eyes were his grandmother Anne's startling green, a coloring his Aunt Georgiana shared. "Hello, Bennet, darling. I am very glad to see you!"

"And I you. You were away ever so much longer than one night! Papa said that there was a moat all around Emmerton, just like a real castle, because of all the rains."

"Your cousins would tell you that it was not nearly so romantic as it sounds," Lizzy answered wryly. "I hope you enjoyed yourself while I was gone."

Bennet frowned. "Papa dislikes those German fairy tales we've been reading together, so he uses silly voices when he reads them."

"How wretched," Lizzy laughed, hugging the small boy against her legs. "Well, I shall read to you tonight, I promise."

"That's all right—last night, the general read us an account of a Roman battle from years and years ago! It was very exciting!"

"The general is here?" Lizzy asked with surprise. "No wonder you have not missed me much."

"A cousin, even one who wears a uniform and travels the world fighting villains and winning glory can still never hold a candle to a mother," said the same masculine voice from earlier. Lizzy turned to see Richard Fitzwilliam striding down the path, brushing boxwood leaves from his hat and coat. "Do not let the young rascal convince you otherwise."

"Richard! I did not know you were even in England! What a delightful surprise!" Lizzy hugged him hard, laughing as he picked her up and spun her once. He was a man of maturity now with darkly tanned skin and a few lines on his face, yet Lizzy was as pleased as ever that his latest assignments had not diminished his youthful vigor or the spark of good-humor in his eyes.

"I only arrived in town a week ago," he answered, setting her down, "so I settled my business as quickly as I could, stayed for a few days with my own mother, then raced to Pemberley for some hard-earned rest and relaxation. I hope I am not an unwelcome guest."

"Never," Lizzy assured him. "Why you insist on calling yourself a guest at all I cannot imagine—you are family. And with Georgiana and Mr. Layton settled so far south, and my own sisters just as spread out, we need all the family we can get."

Richard smiled then turned slowly and bowed quite formally to Charlotte. "Mrs. Collins. It is an unspeakable pleasure to see you again."

"Colonel… no, Major General Fitzwilliam. I am… pleased to see you as well."

Lizzy was quite surprised to notice pink on Charlotte's cheeks and some difficulty in meeting Richard's frank gaze.

"General! General!" another young voice called from somewhere off to the left, obviously approaching by some invisible means. "The enemy has been sighted, sir! An entire battalion is marching up the peninsula!"

A small, fair-haired boy tumbled out of the entrance to the Rose Walk, his eyes eager and bright and his face deadly serious. Upon sighting Charlotte, he released a delighted cry and ran into her arms, easily transitioning from urgent soldier to happy child. "Mama!"

"Making war again, are we, Freddy?" Charlotte asked fondly, ruffling his hair and looking him over with evident maternal pride. She tugged a small twig from beneath his narrow collar.

"Yes, Mama. The general has put us through training the past few days, but the enemy is attacking earlier than expected, and we must face them today!"

"What sort of training?" Charlotte asked seriously, crouching beside her son.

"We practiced moving stealthily through the forest, belly-crawling under the hedges, foraging for survival if we are cut off from our unit… uh… tidying our cots in case the camp must be taken down hurriedly…"

"My, my," Charlotte said. "You have been busy. I hope the general has not neglected to teach you the importance of obeying one's superiors."

"Indeed not!" Freddy answered, appearing shocked that she would even make such a suggestion. "He said that a soldier must obey his commanding officer instantly, that lives might hang in the balance of any order. And he said that the only person whose command might override that of one's general is royalty." He gestured toward his mother and Lizzy. "He says the Kingdom of Pemberley has two queens and two generals."

"As long as we know where the generals fit in the chain of command," Charlotte replied, nodding earnestly. "I am pleased that you have been so well prepared in my absence."

"Corporal Darcy! Captain Collins! The enemy is nearly upon us!" William's voice called from the bottom of the low hill at the base of the lawn. "Perform one last inspection of the troops and send word to the artillerymen to load and await General Fitzwilliam's command!" William appeared slowly climbing the hill.

"Yes, sir!" both boys cried, saluting smartly before running off, grabbing the wooden rifles they had both abandoned in their distraction.

"Are they not required to bow before leaving the presence of royalty?" Charlotte asked, raising twinkling eyes to Richard, who had already been watching her for most of her conversation with Freddy.

"That is tomorrow's lesson," Richard assured her with a wink. "Soldiers can only absorb a certain number of habits in a single day."

"Of course."

Lizzy's gaze returned to her husband, who was finally cresting the hill. He was wearing a brown coat she particularly liked, and his hair was tousled from the slight breeze. At the realization that he was panting slightly from the exertion, that his weight was leaned heavily on his walking stick, Lizzy pursed her lips, but she let herself focus on the handsomeness of his countenance rather than the reminder of his continuing convalescence.

He had clearly caught sight of her, and something about the intensity of his expression made her middle flutter in a way only he had ever managed to cause. He paused, however, at the edge of the stone path.

"Hello, Elizabeth." He looked both sheepish and warily pleased to see her.

"Good afternoon, William."

He frowned. "Are you going to scold me for over-exerting myself during your absence?"

She crossed the path to him and stopped only inches away, tugging on his lapels until he had lowered his head enough for her to kiss his cheek. "No," she replied quietly. "I am going to tell you how dearly I missed you."

"I dislike it when you leave," he said into her ear, still bent towards her. "I can never settle when you are gone."

"I am very glad to hear it."

He smiled, but he could not hide the lines that always formed around his eyes when he was in pain.

She opened her mouth to remind him that the doctor had ordered him to remain cautious and not tire himself, but she bit her tongue instead. It was difficult for her not to scold, not to cluck and fuss, but the only effect those behaviors ever had was to make him more stubbornly insistent that all was well.

Instead she offered him a coy smile, meeting his eyes significantly, before arranging her face into a more appropriate expression and turning back to Charlotte and Richard, who were conversing together quietly. "I am sorry we are to be poor hosts, but I find I am more tired from my journey than I expected, and William's leg has, after a morning spent in battle, earned a rest as well. We are going to retire for a few hours."

Lizzy waited for an argument from her husband, but he offered none. Charlotte nodded graciously, although Lizzy could detect the smirk under her acceptance—Lizzy had slept enough in the carriage to make another nap entirely impossible.

"Of course, Elizabeth," Richard said. "I will keep the boys entertained for the afternoon, since I am certain Mrs. Collins would like an opportunity to rest as well." With a compassionate expression slightly too earnest to be entirely sincere, he added, "After all, old men need their repose."

"I _am_ sorry," William retorted. "Which of us here has more silver in his hair than color?"

"It simply makes me more distinguished," Richard replied, preening like a London dandy. "Which of us has begun squinting in order to read his pocket watch?"

"You. At least until you put on those spectacles you attempt to keep hidden in your pocket."

"Oh, yes? Well, which of us…"

"Stop it, both of you!" Lizzy laughed. "Otherwise supper will be served before we even reach the house."

The four made their farewells, leaving Richard on the lawn, and Charlotte parted from the Darcy's at the head of the stairs, moving toward the guest wing where she had insisted on being housed despite them both considering her as family. William had been quiet on the trip, his progress up the stairs halting, and his breath was coming hard by the time they reached the top, but Lizzy kept her peace. As soon as the door to their chambers was closed, he sagged against it.

"Oh, Elizabeth," he sighed, his gaze full of emotions as she returned to him and silently offered her arm. He leaned on her heavily as they crossed the sitting room into his chamber. "I am undone by a low hill or two and a single set of stairs!"

"You are far from undone, William," she replied. "Three months ago, Matthew still had to carry you up and down the stairs. You improve every day."

"I know," he conceded. "I still hate my weakness, even as it decreases."

"You are not weak," Lizzy insisted. "You are the strongest man I know."

He raised one eyebrow at her eloquently as she lowered him to the cushioned bench at the end of his bed.

"Well, you are," she argued, her hands on her hips. "Six months ago, you were nearly killed by a runaway carriage, yet you improve every day, regaining your health and vitality with incredible speed and determination. And besides, some portion of your physical strength may have left you for a time, but that has no effect on your character, which is infinitely more attractive to me than your outer aspect or abilities."

He remained unconvinced.

She huffed and moved to lock both doors into William's chamber. She returned and stood over him, pressing against his chest with her fingertips. "Strength of character is far more desirable than physical strength. Say it with me."

William chuckled, allowing her pressure to lean him back onto the bed. "I understand the theory of what you say, my love, but no matter how I try to reconcile the idea, I cannot enjoy my inabilities."

She helped him remove the short boots he had worn since his accident, eliciting a sigh of relief, then crawled over the bench onto the bed, kneeling beside him. "In what important area do you lack? Are you able to oversee your estate effectively?"

"I suppose so."

"Are you able to conduct your business in London and travel when necessary?"

"Yes."

"Can you enjoy your children and set a good example for them?"

"I do my best."

By now she was hovering over him, her forearms supporting her on either side of his head. His hands came up to her hips. "And are you capable of loving your wife with tender, passionate devotion?"

His answer was a heated kiss.

When she pulled back, it was just far enough to look into his eyes. "Then obviously, sir, you are strong enough in all the ways that matter. Whatever else you achieve in terms of recovery will be merely a pleasant addition. You have spent the entirety of our lives together proving to me the truth of what you claimed that first, memorable morning after our abduction."

"And what was that?"

"That you have both the strength and the will to always watch over me, to be enough for our family and all those who depend upon you."

His eyes burned, and he kissed her again. "I love you, Elizabeth Bennet Darcy."

She would have offered a similar reply, but he allowed her no opportunity for more words for quite some time.

* * *

General Richard Fitzwilliam stood rigidly, staring out the window at the new-green of springtime spreading over Darcy's estate. He tried to appreciate the beauty, to find the peace he had always known here, but he found he was as anxious as a new sergeant given his first command. He had too much restless energy to sit, and if he did not grip his hands together tightly behind his back, he would worry his ridiculous cravat to ruins. How he wished he had worn his uniform—it had a plethora of medals and insignia with which to fidget—but it was back in London.

The parlor door opened and Mrs. Collins entered, spiking his agitation. "General!" She appeared surprised to see him, but he hoped the blush on her cheeks was a good sign rather than a bad one. She drew in a calming breath, not realizing that she had automatically tugged the parlor door closed behind her. "It appears we are both ready for dinner too early."

She was wearing an evening gown of dark blue silk, and her hair was pinned up in that same lovely style she had worn earlier. His eyes lingered on her figure for a moment, noting the pleasant softness the years had brought to her previously spare frame. He realized again, as he had that afternoon, how very well her age suited her.

"Indeed. With Darcy and Elizabeth _resting_ , it could be some time still before they appear."

Mrs. Collins laughed lightly, not offended by his candor. "Their marriage is a passionate one, I think, no matter how hard they try to hide it. They are both very lucky."

"Allow me to offer my condolences on your own husband's passing," Fitzwilliam said quietly.

She moved deeper into the room, coming to stand beside him at the window and look out over the darkening landscape. "Thank you."

"Elizabeth tells me you are residing primarily with your family in Hertfordshire."

"Yes, although given the amount of time Freddy spends with Mr. Bennet, Longbourn has come to feel much like a home as well."

"Freddy will inherit Longbourn, will he not?"

Charlotte nodded. "Mr. Bennet has taken quite an interest, teaching him all about the estate and the responsibilities of a landowner. I believe he truly enjoys the idea of training his successor, the son he never had. And Mr. Darcy takes Freddy and Bennet with him sometimes when he goes to resolve tenant disputes or look over a repair. Between him and Mr. Bennet, Freddy will be much better prepared for his inheritance than many young men could boast."

"He is a lucky young man."

"Indeed."

"He is also a remarkably intelligent one. It has been a distinct pleasure getting to know him over these past three days. He has Mr. Collins' coloring, but he has his mother's sense and awareness."

"Freddy told me before he went to bed of all your adventures. One would think he had known you his entire life for the amount of time it seems you have spent with him. I hope he has not been a burden."

"I have enjoyed every moment, I assure you."

"'The General' was the only topic he wished to discuss at all this evening," she smiled. "Each time he called you that, I found it jarring. It is difficult to reconcile the gentleman I remember from Kent with the well-known general about whom we have read in _The Times_. You are growing quite infamous, sir, but seeing you before me now only slightly changed, I find myself wondering whether even half of the stories are true."

"Most of what you have read regarding our campaigns is probably accurate. I tend to be rather… unorthodox in my methods. But if you are referring to the society pages, then I can assure you that everything they report is an outrageous lie."

"You are certainly a figure of much speculation," Mrs. Collins chuckled. "It should not be surprising—you are well-known, influential, quite flush, reportedly thanks to investment and promotion, and a bachelor. They even call you 'debonair.'"

"A vicious falsehood if ever I have heard one!" Fitzwilliam laughed.

"If I remember right," Mrs. Collins said, her tone still light but her manner stiff, "your last foray into London society included whispers of an imminent engagement to a Miss Worthington, a young heiress worth over twenty-thousand pounds."

"I escorted Miss Worthington and her family to the opera once. I was bullied into it by a well-meaning friend, and I regretted it immediately upon arrival. She giggled through the entire performance of _Don Giovanni_. Needless to say, we only met socially afterward. I would not exactly call that a near-engagement."

Mrs. Collins smiled, appearing comfortable again. "You are a determined bachelor then, sir?"

"Not at all, I assure you. Marriage is my goal, but as I am only interested in a happy one, my requirements for entering into the state are quite stringent."

"And what are these impossible standards that have kept you single all these years, sir?"

"'Tis quite simple, really," Fitzwilliam said, swallowing down the nerves threatening to choke him. "The woman I marry must either be you or be incredible enough for me to forget you."

Mrs. Collins did not move. Her eyes stayed on the tree line at the far side of Pemberley's lawn, and her arms hung calmly at her sides. He wished he could see her face, but he had not the courage to reach out to her.

"I am a military man, Mrs. Collins, even more so now than when we knew one another before. Ever since I learned that you were widowed and staying at Pemberley, I have been strategizing, attempting to devise an appropriate means of marching here and achieving your surrender."

"Are we at war, sir?"

"Courting is a sort of ongoing war," he acknowledged, pleased she was still addressing him at all. "One kingdom or principality desires to expand, to become more than it already is, and its best means of doing so is making a bid for control of a nearby country or dominion, preferably an attractive one with ample resources and a good leadership base. Does that not remind you of a night at a public ball?"

A reluctant laugh burbled up from inside her. "That is horrifyingly apt."

"Just so. Therefore, in my campaign to win your heart, I have considered many strategies. I could lay siege to your borders, surrounding you and overwhelming you until you are forced to bow to my will."

"Play the world's most romantic, present, and persistent suitor, you mean?"

"Exactly. I could be more devious, unearthing secret paths underneath your defenses, ending any resistance before it had begun."

"You would… attempt to win my favor by attaching my son to you, for example?"

"You are a most clever woman, Mrs. Collins. I could also attempt to bribe my way inside, bringing gifts and promises of 'beneficial alliance.'"

"Parading your newfound wealth before me, I suppose? Or behaving as if you only wish to be my friend?"

"I could also send in negotiators to talk you into lowering your defenses, convincing you to open your gates with fair promises."

"A carefully planned seduction." Her profile revealed nothing, but her ears turned pink.

"But of all the strategies I contrived, I found myself falling back on the most honorable method of making war—the direct frontal assault, preceded by an embassage declaring my intentions in order to give you time to prepare your defense."

"This conversation, I would assume, is my fair warning."

"It seems sporting to warn you of my objective."

"And why, sir, of all the more attractive options available around you, are you focusing such a monumental effort on my small kingdom?"

"Because even after nearly fifteen years of actively investigating the territories and provinces within my reach, your kingdom is still the only one I want. It is the only one with the unique series of resources my kingdom needs in order to be satisfied. Your previous alliance was a disaster for my kingdom, and so I sought far and wide for one somewhat like yours, but I have never been even mildly tempted.

"And then, six months ago, I received word that your alliance had ended, so I began putting my plans in place, preparing my officers and mobilizing my troops, stockpiling ammunition…"

Mrs. Collins glanced quickly toward him with a raised brow before turning back to the window.

"I sent a message to London declaring my intent to retire," he clarified. "I knew it would take time—London was excessively unhappy, but they had no grounds to refuse me. Still, I only arrived just in time."

"What was your hurry, sir?"

"I intended to be here the day you came out of mourning," he admitted. "And I was. It was you who was not here."

"I hate to think you rushed," she smirked. "I have no bevy of admirers—I mean, other invading armies—to challenge you."

"I was not worried about that. The world is full of fools who would never be able to see you for all that you are worth. I was simply impatient. For seven-and-one-half years I believed any connection between us to be impossible, and I remained away for both our sakes, but I never forgot you. 'Twas your face of which I dreamed during those long dreary campaigns. 'Twas your laughter that warmed me on my loneliest, most solitary nights.

"And then, six months ago, I received a letter from Elizabeth that mentioned your situation, and hope dawned again. My every effort since then has been to bring me before you."

"To enact my surrender?"

"Exactly."

She was thoroughly still and silent for a long time, too long for Fitzwilliam's patience. "Is my cause already lost, Mrs. Collins? If so, please tell me so at once."

"You would cancel your campaign so easily?"

"Of course not. But I would require time to plan a new attack."

"I am struggling with your metaphor."

He paused, bemused. "My… metaphor?"

"I have little interest in surrender, sir, or annexation."

"Ah." She had no wish to marry again. Could he blame her for that, given her previous experience? "I suppose that would make my assault most ill-conceived."

"Yes."

Fitzwilliam spun and moved away, too full of conflicting emotions to remain still any longer. He envied her unruffled manner, simultaneously hating it and admiring it as much as he had all those years before.

"But," she said quietly, "I might be willing to consider… a diplomatic negotiation."

Fitzwilliam turned. "What sort of negotiation?"

"You wish to acquire my kingdom and resources. I find that, although the people of my kingdom are entirely self-sufficient, there are certain commodities that might make them … more comfortable. Happier. If we were to discover, through some period of negotiation, that we were well-suited to meet one another's needs, I would be willing to consider a partnership."

"You would allow me to court you?"

She appeared surprised by the word, but she nodded. "I suppose I would. I am not averse to forming a new alliance eventually, sir. But this time, I intend to be most cautious in the selection of my ally."

"And what are _your_ requirements, madam? What commodities interest you?"

She drew in a deep breath and finally, _finally_ , turned to face him. Her expression was still calm, but as she raised her eyes to meet his, he felt almost winded by the emotion in them. "I seek to build ties with a land of…" She blushed slightly and shook her head. "Again, the metaphor has failed me. If I marry again, I am determined that this time, nothing but the most passionate admiration and affection will suffice, both in my feelings and those of my chosen partner. I married once for security, for respectability. I have achieved both. What that alliance lacked, however, was the affection, esteem, and desire that can make marriage truly joyful. I will settle for nothing less."

Fitzwilliam stepped in front of her, his heart hammering as he reached out slowly, making certain he had her permission to take her hand. "Nor shall I. Having waited this long, having learned to survive loneliness, only the truest belief of my impending happiness would induce me into matrimony."

"And you believe such enduring joy could be achieved with me?" she asked, her eyes dropping shyly.

"My dear Mrs. Collins," he answered, pressing her hand to his chest, "I knew you for only month over eight years ago, and yet you stole my heart with almost no effort. I intended to wait a few weeks to make my intentions known to you here at Pemberley, to give us both time to come to know one another again, but in the five minutes we conversed together earlier, I decided I had no wish to wait. I would like to court you, to know you better and have you know me, but I want my intentions toward you quite clear."

Mrs. Collins smiled up at him, still slightly bashful. "Then I believe you have achieved all of your goals for this evening, sir."

He grinned back, but he grew serious again quickly, stepping forward to cut the distance between them. "Not all of them."

Mrs. Collins's smile vanished as she tipped her head to hold his gaze. She swallowed hard. "What other objective have you neglected?"

She did not pull back from him as he raised a hand to brush the backs of his fingers against her cheek. She released a quiet gasp at the touch. "I want to kiss you."

"That would be quite inappropriate, sir, given than we have only been courting for five or six minutes now." Her tone was reproachful, but she closed her eyes and sighed as he ran a finger over her cheekbone.

"Why? You know my intentions are honorable. You are a widow, so your reputation is perfectly safe."

"But my equanimity is not."

"You believe my kiss will unsettle you?"

"It did eight years ago. I cannot imagine much has changed."

"I hope not," he agreed, rubbing his thumb lightly over her lips. "A truly excellent kiss ought to be excessively unsettling. Eight years later, and I am still affected by the memory."

"As am I," she whispered.

"Tell me that you thought of me sometimes these past years. Tell me that you remembered me."

"Almost never. I trained myself to avoid thoughts of you at all costs, for the sake of my vows to my husband and my own sanity. I never asked for tidings of you or continued conversations where you were discussed. Such thoughts only brought me dissatisfaction."

Fitzwilliam leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers.

"Yet somehow," she continued, "my thoughts have lingered upon you more often than I would care to admit these past months. My memories of those few weeks are far clearer than they should be, given how profoundly I thought I had ignored them, and I seem to have voraciously read any tidings I received of you all this time. I have found myself hoping I would meet you again, wondering whether there might be something between us still."

"And what is your conclusion?"

He felt her fingers lightly come to clasp the front edges of his waistcoat. "I have already agreed to this courtship, sir, after less than an hour in your company. I do not believe you need any further elucidation."

"Endless discussion of the same topic is an essential part of any negotiation, peaceful or otherwise."

She laughed quietly, her eyes bright. "If you are going to kiss me, General, it had best be soon, else we shall be interrupted."

Fitzwilliam settled both arms around her, resting on her back. "To you, I would prefer to be simply Richard."

"Richard," she breathed, her eyes on his mouth.

He closed the gap between them and brushed his lips over hers tenderly. That was all he had intended, but before he could move back, her arms slid around his waist, and the simple movement undid all his resolve. He pressed her against him and took possession of her mouth with all the triumphant thrill of victory after a long-fought battle.

He had kissed his share of women in his younger years, and he had come to believe at the time that one kiss was very much like another, but the recollection of the night he had kissed this particular woman outside of Coxton had tortured him. It had been too short, he knew, to have contained all the emotions his memories had assigned it, and as years had passed, he had come to believe he had glorified it far beyond reality.

But to passionately kiss this woman, the woman of whom he had dreamt for so long, while she willingly and guiltlessly surrendered to him, was enough to throw all his assumptions on their heads. This kiss was far better than any of his memories. The mixture of desire and affection and _hope_ unraveled him, rubbing out the rest of the world until the only reality left in the universe was his lips upon hers, his hands traveling helplessly between her face and her shoulders and the small of her back.

He was more surprised than he would ever admit when, upon being returned harshly to the present by the clearing of a throat, he discovered that they had migrated to the nearest settee, Mrs. Collins perched on his lap. She jumped to her feet, straightening her gown with significant mortification, and Fitzwilliam rose beside her, as embarrassed to be blushing as he was to have been caught in such a compromising position. "Good evening, cousins."

Darcy and Elizabeth were standing in the doorway. "What is the meaning of this, Fitzwilliam?" Darcy asked, glowering dangerously.

Fitzwilliam took courage, however, from Elizabeth's twinkling eyes and hidden smile. "We were simply becoming reacquainted, Darcy."

"Reacquainted?" Darcy asked, thoroughly scandalized.

Mrs. Collins sent a hard look toward Fitzwilliam before replying quite calmly, "Do not concern yourself, Mr. Darcy. General Fitzwilliam and I were… celebrating our decision to begin courting."

"Oh, Charlotte!" Elizabeth cried, running forward to hug first her friend and then Fitzwilliam. "How wonderful!"

Darcy's expression softened as he watched his wife's enthusiastic response, but his mouth was still pressed into a tight frown. "Congratulations, then, but I would hope not to be subjected to any more displays of that kind in my parlor."

"Oh, of course not, Darcy," Fitzwilliam responded with far too much contrition. "Because neither I nor Mrs. Collins has ever been subjected to such displays in this very parlor by the master and mistress of the house."

Darcy glared for a moment before finally, slowly, allowing a small smile to appear. "I have no idea what you could mean, cousin."

Elizabeth laughed delightedly, crossing the room and kissing Darcy full on the lips before dancing over to pull the dinner bell.

There was much cheerful chatter between the four of them as they waited for the meal to be announced, grins and significant glances all around, but Fitzwilliam felt that the crowning achievement of the evening, in some ways even better than the passion he and his lady had discovered between them, came just after Mrs. Collins wrapped her arm through his quite comfortably as he escorted her into the dining room.

She looked up at him from under thick, dark lashes. "I am not certain we are going to manage courting for very long, sir."

"I would marry you tomorrow, madam, if I did not think it would be kind to give Freddy some time to adjust to the idea."

"I do not imagine that will take very long either. He already believes the sun rises and sets with you."

"And you, Mrs. Collins? Do you agree with him?"

She offered him a very winsome half-smile. "Not yet. I suggest asking me again on… what is today? Monday? Ask me again on Thursday. Wednesday at the earliest."

"You can be assured that I shall do so. You know, I believe we are going to be remarkably content together."

"Against my temperament, I believe I am forced to agree with you… Richard." She kissed his cheek.

"'Twill only be the first of many times you shall be forced to agree with me, Mrs. Collins. I am right on at least a semi-regular basis."

She gazed up at him as he lowered her into her chair at the table, her eyes shining with something he only that moment realized he had never truly seen there before. It was happiness.

"Please, Richard. Call me Charlotte."


End file.
